


The Winchester Soldier

by thawinoakenshield



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Avengers AU, Canon Typical Violence, F/F, Gen, Multi, Suicide, allusions to past rape, characters being angsty, iron man is iron woman, little bit of swearing, no smut (yet)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 14:25:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9238916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thawinoakenshield/pseuds/thawinoakenshield
Summary: Following their assembly to protect New York, Dean Winchester leads the Avengers on a seemingly trivial mission. With tensions running high and an increasing number of lies to unpick, will they live up to their heroic reputations or will the strains on their friendship prove to be too much?





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic on here, hello! Massive thank you to my artist +wizard-fallen-angel who is a wonderful human being in every way. This story is told in three parts (Dean, Bela & Castiel) and I hope you enjoy it.

~~~~  
  
  
  
DEAN  
Kevin was airborne, wings outstretched as he soared through the clouds. He was a blade, skinning the sky as he moved with well-practised grace. A thin layer of sweat  
coated his forehead and his just-a-tad-too-long hair stuck out from under his goggles. The heat appeared to have settled into his bones and the breeze seemed to be a welcome relief to him. Despite the fast pace, despite the danger and the risks and the hazards, he looked at peace.

The observer of these facts felt a bubble of affection rise in his chest, taking a split-second aside to watch his friend. But there was not enough time to let the secret smile show before they landed from the plane,parachutes abandoned on the rooftop. His landing was smooth, rolling cleanly before springing to his feet. Gunshots in a suspected HYDRA building, nothing out of the ordinary.

“Five hostiles coming up the stairwell.” Kevin’s voice was still unafraid. At least twenty had been spotted and five would be a piece of cake in comparison. Dean shoved the door inwards, off its hinges, and felt it collide with the first person before the second pushed back. He stepped aside and they rushed at him, stance guarded, expressions blank.

Dasha took out one faster than Dean could blink, the man’s jaw crunching against her foot before she leapt, legs cutting off his air supply as she rendered him unconscious. Dean threw his shield at the third before engaging in hand-to-hand with the nearest soldier. The unnamed man – HYDRA, presumably, but Dasha would know for certain – lasted a total of thirteen seconds before Dean threw him down.

Dasha had the fifth in headlock when Kevin’s voice returned. “Hostage is on the sixth floor and NYPD have set up a perimeter about two blocks back. There might be a fire - the infrared is looking bad.”

“Has anyone seen Hawkeye?” This time it was Dasha and Dean shrugged, eyes still fixed on the door.

“Charlie’ll show up, Dasha, she always does.” Dean retrieved his shield and made for the stairs, knowing that his friend would have his back. She was a different breed of trustworthy and, in her own way, she was brilliant.

Dean prised the elevator doors open with his shield. “Five dollars says she complains about not getting to kickass on the roof,” she grinned, pressing the button before stepping out again.

“Maybe it’ll encourage her to show up on time for the next one-”

“I think I’m pretty punctual, actually.” She held out a hand for Dasha to help her down, beaming down at them from on top of the elevator. “You coming, Cap, or is Strike Team Delta gonna serve these bitches solo?”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s get this done.” But his lips curved, pleased to see her all the same. Smoke curled up through the shaft. “Stairs. Kevin, I’ll get the hostage to the South window. Rest of you got enough ammo?”

Dasha arched an eyebrow, kicking open the door to the stairwell. “I haven’t fired anything today, Dean, I think I’m doing just fine.”

~~

Later, Dean lay awake in bed staring up at the ceiling. Memory foam was a touch of heaven. Kansas was his latest binge and he blasted it, having taken advantage of Harvelle’s offer for tech so that his ears were cushioned by the largest set of headphones he dared to own. She had extended this offer to the Avengers tower itself – that big ugly building was starting to feel like a second home – but Dean had elected to keep his apartment. It was his refuge (although he was fairly sure SHIELD knew where he was) and his home.

Plus, the chick across the hall was hot which was always a good thing.

Tonight, neither memories nor the mission at hand were keeping him awake. Dasha had the data Singer wanted, that was true, but they had thrust a box into his hand that Dean had no idea what to do with. If it was technology de-coding that Frank had wanted, Dean was completely the wrong person (and both of them would have known that) so it puzzled him. Rain began to fall and Dean sat up to close the window, setting his headphones aside.

He had spoken to Frank Devereaux perhaps twice previously, at the most, and the man had made no sense. The main impressions that Dean had gotten were of paranoia and bad body odour (at the time, Dean had mostly just nodded in the hopes of Charlie reappearing from the bathroom quickly before the technobabble rotted his brain).

Now, all he had was the instruction not to open the object – which Dean fully supported, he had seen enough of Pandora’s Box-type shit to heed the warning – and keep it to himself. But the cryptic warnings were grating on him and his mind refused to quieten. Something lay inside, obviously, but it could have been anything from Singer’s skeleton key to a packet of vomit-flavoured condoms (Dean was hardly going to judge).

He pushed the box under his pillow, wanting to put it out of his mind until tomorrow – or, more practically, just call Dasha. The simplicity of the idea surprised him and he chuckled to himself, surprised that he had not thought of it earlier. She already knew about it being in his possession - besides, keeping secrets was in her nature far more than his own - and her technology knowledge dwarfed his.

Taking out his phone, he selected her contact and hit call. It dialled itself and rang once before the screen turned black. Dean held it out in front of him, cursing Jo. One of her upgrades must have finally killed it – the woman had started hinting about getting him a new phone about three iPhone releases ago but Dean had resisted – and the timing was terrible.

Opening the drawer, he pulled out one of the coms and stuck it in his ear. Nothing but white noise; this was beginning to look ominous. Dean picked up his shield and fumbled for the light switch. It clicked but no light came. This was bad.

“Hope you assholes know that I have good chicken in the fridge,” he called out, half-hoping to see a sheepish Jo and half-expecting to feel a hail of bullets. But all he could hear was the sound of his own breathing and the far-off shriek of a cat.

Heartbeat. Then the window smashed and Dean braced, a dark figure ploughing through the glass and shoving him backwards. Dean hit the wall, his back denting it, before raising his shield to meet the punch that was thrown at his jaw.

The tall figure seemed unaffected by the Vibranium, glaring through his obscured eyes. “Who the hell are you?” Dean yelled, bringing down his shield into the figure’s – the man’s – shoulder. The man stumbled backwards before his eyes narrowed, a knife slipping into his hand.

“Really,” said Dean, kicking up his chest of drawers onto its side to form an obstacle and pushing it at the advancing man. He then dodged to the side and kicked the knife out of his hand. “You gotta do better than that-”

A hand, a damn metallic hand, caught his jaw and hurt. Spluttering, he swung his leg in an attempt to catch the guy off balance but the man’s other hand caught his leg, sending Dean toppling. The man brought his foot down on Dean’s chest, hard.

“Where. Is. It?” The voice was rough, majority of his face still obscured by the mask and the light too dim to see his eyes.

“Look, buddy-” Dean winced as the man exerted more force. “I think talking this out might be a better way to go.” His lungs protested against the closing space, eyes rolling upwards as he scrambled for breath.

Then a light flashed, just out of Dean’s sight, and reflected in the man’s eyes. For the briefest of moments, for the tiniest, most ephemeral of seconds, Dean thought that he might have recognised something in those eyes.

Mjolnir smashed Dean’s assailant away, sending him flying through the wall and out onto the street below. "NO!” Dean staggered to his feet, running to the gaping hole in his wall and staring down into the darkness.

An odd combination of dread and hope churned at the bottom of his stomach, a tremor running through him as he searched for the broken body on the sidewalk. It must have been a trick of the light or just a coincidence; it was impossible. “You are welcome, Dean,” said a familiar voice behind him, raising his hand to summon the hammer back again.

Dean turned to face him, a wild look in his eyes. His chest heaved, his knees threatened to give way and the taste of blood polluted his mouth. “What the hell’s going on, Thor?” As long as Dean took deep breaths, he knew he would be able to think clearly again. Part of him wanted to rage at Thor, to beat his fists against the Asgardian’s chest until exhaustion took his thoughts away.

“Singer is dead and your offender was after a relic from Asgard.” Thor closed his eyes, shaking his head. Dean’s posture stiffened, heart still pounding against his aching chest. Singer was their leader, he could not be dead. Too much rested on his shoulders. “One of my brothers was simply enjoying his youth. We had no idea that it had fallen to Midgard until the report of disturbances returned.”

When Dean still did not respond, Thor opened his eyes and offered him a faint smile. “It is good to see you again, my friend.” He took a step closer and Dean braced himself once again, ribs giving a sharp pang as he did so. Then Thor’s hand, warm and oddly comforting, settled on Dean’s forehead.

Almost immediately, the physical pain disappeared. Dean inhaled deeply, nodding his gratitude. “And you, Thor. Just wish it was under better circumstances.” Dean could not manage his own smile, thoughts about the figure and his familiar eyes slipping away - a trick of the light, that was all – and being replaced by images of Singer, eye unmoving and lips turning blue. “What happened to Singer?”

Thor stared a little too intently to be comfortable and Dean shifted under his gaze. “The same thing that would have happened to you, as far as I am aware. The details escape me.”

Dean returned to his bed wishing he could sink into it. SHIELD, it had to be. He ran his hand through his hair before taking the box from under his pillow. Soldiers could not afford to stop and grieve until the battle was over. Even if they were not exactly sure on what the battle was. “So. What’s in here?” But when Dean looked up at Thor, he realised that Thor’s expression had changed completely. “Thor?” Dean’s fingers were reaching for the clasp before Thor reached across, batting his fingers away.

“Do not, under any circumstances, open that box.” Something akin to a glowing blue vein seemed to be pulsating in Thor’s forehead, his eyes a brighter blue than usual – as if that were possible, a rogue thought inside Dean’s head whispered mutinously – but there was a fear entwined with the expression that made Dean uneasy.

“If it’s so dangerous in my hands, maybe you should take-?”

“No!” snapped Thor, stepping back as if Dean might burn him. “No. This is something else - something remarkable, I admit - but it must not be in close proximity to Asgardian blood.”

Dean let out a low whistle, putting the box into his pocket. “Right, no gods and no touching. Gotcha.” It did leave him in a slight dilemma. “So what? Let it rot in storage for a couple millennia?”

Thor shook his head. “In the words of your pop culture: keep it secret, keep it safe.” With that, he was gone.

Dean glared at the empty space before turning away from it. In the words of our pop culture, he remarked bitterly to himself, that was maddeningly unhelpful. Charlie had been responsible for the Disney marathon and, despite the initial grumbling and eye rolling, he had enjoyed himself.

It had been worth it to see Game of Thrones afterwards. Whoa.

Sleep was the last thing on his mind but, even if it had been, it was out of the question now. The man-shaped hole in the wall had seen to that.

So he grabbed a backpack, stowed the essentials, got dressed and walked, a cap pulled over his head (partly for the joke, partly for a makeshift disguise). Perhaps he had no idea where Dasha went in her spare time but Kevin’s house was within walking distance and Dean knew that he would need somewhere to crash when the adrenaline wore off.

Out in the hallway, his neighbour stood in her dishevelled pyjamas with folded arms and an amused expression. “Having fun in there, were we?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow.

Dean stuttered a laugh. “Something like that. Hope I didn’t wake you.”

Something burned behind her eyes as she blatantly looked him up and down. Dean knew that look. “Oh, you usually keep me awake, Dean. Not that I mind too much.” She winked at him before turning on her heel and walking back to her own apartment, leaving him stunned in her wake. It was too late for this - or early, as it was probably past one by now.

Kevin. Kevin was easier to talk to than hot women, assassins with rage and Asgardians with commitment issues. Dean checked the time as he made it out onto the street and smirked. Four in the morning was hardly the best time for social visits but Dean was sure that Kevin would make an exception when he heard about Singer.

~~

Dasha appeared with a set of burner phones halfway through their attempt at breakfast. Dean did not ask how she had arrived so quickly nor about the hickey on her neck – presuming they were still called hickeys in the twenty-first century – and picked up one of the phones.

“They call this low-tech, I guess?” he asked between croissants, perfectly content to eat everything mildly breakfast-related in Kevin’s house.

“No way, Dean,” laughed Dasha, taking a glass, filling it with orange juice and downing it. “So. Humour me, what’s the plan?”

Dean shrugged. “If they’re covering up his death, we’ve got to be blind until we know what’s going on. So I’ll probably take this hunk of junk to Harvelle and see what she thinks of it. Maybe she can find a way to use it to help people.”

“Or make more money,” chipped in Kevin skeptically. “But yeah. Since when does Thor go around announcing death in the middle of the night?”

“I dunno, man, some Asgard thing. Or maybe just because some crazy, metal-armed assassin decided to visit him, too. I’ve no idea how Thor knew to come but I’m pretty glad he did – the random douchebag was about two seconds away from breaking my ribs.” Kevin’s eyebrows raised but Dasha looked pensive.

“Metal arm? Are you sure?” she asked, stealing a slice of toast from his plate and biting into it.

“Yeah, he nearly broke my jaw with it,” replied Dean, trying to sound nonchalant.

Dasha winced. “Oh, we’re so screwed. Looks like you've become top priority on the HYDRA kill list, if you weren't there already. Plus, if this is who I think it is, we’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

Kevin refilled her glass, looking a little confused. “Why? Who do you think it was?”

Dasha licked the crumbs from her lips, evading their gaze for a moment before looking up again. “A ghost story.” She shook her head, almost looking bemused. “Some people in the industry know him as the Winter Soldier. He’s tied in with about twenty assassinations in the past sixty years.”

“That’s gotta be fake,” said Dean.

“Someone’s probably passing down a uniform or something,” agreed Kevin. “Maybe it’s some sort of winter squad, who knows.”

Dasha rolled her eyes. “I do. I was escorting some engineers and their research – ridiculous stuff, everything from blueprints for kit that can trace nukes to devices that kill cancer cells. But someone must have bugged the files because our location was already wasted by the time we got there. The soldier’s training was something I’ve never seen before – if Charlie hadn’t been there for the exit, I would’ve been toast.” She lifted her top, revealing a heavy scar above her hipbone. “I tried to cover them. Out of the five in our custody, just one made it out alive.”

Kevin’s hand found her shoulder and Dasha allowed herself a small smile. “That one person’s family have been spared a whole lot of pain, Dasha.”

She leaned her cheek across his hand. “Yeah, I know. Every little good deed and all that. I’m fine with it. You just can’t underestimate this guy.” Now she looked straight at Dean.

Dean nodded. “Yeah, sure. This Winter Soldier seems like he wants to kick my ass and maybe he’s powerful enough to do it. So, how do we stop him?”

~~

Jo was in the basement of her mansion, music loud enough to be deafening, gesturing at the images around her as her hips swayed. “Hey, CALEB, can we double-check the night vision on mark seven? I don’t wanna be out there blind next time someone needs their ass saving-” The music quietened as she turned, grinning from ear to ear. “Speaking of asses, hey Dean. Kevin, Dasha, what brings you here? I kill my phone for twelve hours and the world goes to shit?”

The three of them shared a look. Dasha had deemed it prudent to keep the information to as few people as possible and Jo did not, exactly, have the best track record for keeping secrets.

“Something like that,” said Kevin. “But what the hell is that?”

He pointed to, in Dean’s eyes, a pile of metal stacked haphazardly on a table about three feet away. Jo’s grin widened, grabbing Kevin’s hand. “Oh, you’ll love this. Yours is only EXO-7. Say hello to his big bro, EXO-7.9. Oh, and I call this little guy Robin-”

“Redwing,” breathed Kevin, picking up the mechanical plane with an expression of wonder on his face. “It needs to be called something cool to match the rest of the suit.” One of the ceiling lights flickered briefly. “Dasha, back me up here.” 

“They cut him out of the ’89 film, I’m just-!” protested Jo, gesturing wildly. The light caught Dean’s eye and he watched it return to normal.

“Yeah, Jo, I’m with Kevin on this one.”

Dean cleared his throat. “Can we deal with Redwing-”

“Robin,” muttered Jo.

“Sure. Later?” He took out the box. “Jo, is there anything you can do with this? Preferably without opening it.”

Jo looked quizzical and Kevin smirked at her. “Thor told him not to open it.” For some reason unknown to Dean, this dissipated her confusion. Dean decided not to ask.

“Give me a couple hours and CALEB will have it eating out of the palm of his digital hand.” She abandoned Kevin – to his new toy, thought Dean, not at all bitter– and took the box from Dean. “I’ll scan it first, Cap, see what’s so important on the inside.” Jo walked into the next room, still talking, and Dasha reluctantly moved to follow.

“Someone’s got to make sure she doesn’t blow us all up.”

A well-dressed redhead pushed open the door to the staircase, looking faintly displeased by the state of the workshop as she stepped inside. At first glance, Dean had thought it had been Charlie in a dress but he had never seen her in formal wear voluntarily. “I’m not sure she’ll have time to. Jo! CALEB isn’t responding.”

Kevin reached for the new gear, clearly trying not to smile. Dean turned to Dasha. “Try your phone.”

She drew it, the screen flashed and then died. “This is what happened to yours, I’m guessing?”

Dean nodded. “Suit up, guys. If he’s got the balls to take on Jo’s home, he’s not gonna be playing nicely.” He took up his shield then turned to face not-Charlie. “Is there somewhere secure you can go?”

Dasha laughed, loading her gun, and the new woman turned to Dean with a cheerless smile. “There is. It’s called Rescue.” She lifted her hand – which, suddenly, was coated with a similar material to that of Jo’s suit – and Dean jumped backwards as a suit formed around her. “Less fancy than Jo’s, still works just as well. I mean, considering it’s only worth about twelve percent of hers.”

“I’m never gonna hear the end of that, am I?” came a laugh from the other room.

It was the last thing they heard before the ground fell from under their feet. The lights turned off at once (“goddammit CALEB!”) before flicking to emergency power. Dean was in freefall for about five seconds before Kevin grabbed his hand, supporting them both.

“I thought this place was reinforced!” yelled Dasha, arms wrapped around Rescue.  
Dean realised that Kevin’s other hand was supporting the ceiling, Kevin’s tech working hard to keep them both airborne. “Which way to fresh air?”

“Up then take out the left wall.” The sentence seemed to pain the woman. Dean swung upwards, letting go of Kevin as he broke his way through the plaster.

“I’ll go back for Jo!” called Kevin, swooping downwards and out of sight. Dean had no time to disagree and ran as the floor crumbled underneath him, throwing his shield and bursting through the gap out onto the grass. Dasha clawed her way out, coughing, but neither Kevin nor the woman had resurfaced.

“Drop the shield,” commanded a voice over the sound of guns being loaded. It was Dean’s neighbour, surrounded by people in uniform. Beside him, Dasha’ eyes narrowed and Dean clenched his fist, tapping his thumb against his knuckle. There was no way of warning the others without revealing them and Dean could only hope that they had found somewhere safe to hide. “I said drop it, Dean. This doesn’t have to get ugly.”

“I dunno, Ruby, pointing guns isn’t exactly the prettiest of behavioural traits,” said Dasha. Ruby; that was her name. If Dean had asked her out on a date, he would have known that.

“Hilarious, Dasha, really. Dean, hand over the evidence you stole and then come for a little chat with me.” She walked up to him, smiling. “I might even treat you to a coffee later.” Dean glared, about to tell her where she could stick her coffee, when her lips reached his ear. “Hand me the first thing you reach, don’t react.”

She pressed a kiss on the edge of his ear, making the nearby soldiers chuckle and Dean’s cheeks burn. He dropped the shield angrily and she kicked it out of reach. Slowly, he reached into his pocket. Keys, wallet. If he had time, he could probably have fashioned one of his keyrings into something passable but, as it was, he had nothing.

Seeing this, Dasha peeled off a strip of her skin, much to Ruby’s disgust, and moved to hand Ruby the slip of plastic that had been hidden underneath. “It’s encoded, good luck cracking it.” Dean silently thanked Dasha for having a backup plan – and one that looked fairly realistic, at that.

Ruby looked pointedly at Dean (who may or may not have been smiling) and he jolted, as if shocked. “No, Dasha! We can get out of this.” He glanced towards the shield, sure that he could reach it within five seconds – and saw a red dot hover over Dasha’ chest.

That pacified Ruby and she snatched the plastic from Dasha. “Dream on, grasshopper, we’ve got more guns than you have brain cells.” Then she smiled, turning back to her men with a swish of her hips. “Come on, Cap, I’ve got about twenty men vying for your head. Don’t give them a reason to shoot.”

Reluctantly, Dean raised both hands. “I thought you just wanted to chat.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Dasha mimic his position.

“We do. But when Captain America gets involved in covering up our Director’s murder? Stuff starts to feel a little personal.” She gestured at Jo’s, still smoking, home. “You’ve got to admit, this looks a little suspicious?”

“Don’t,” advised Dasha, having seen Dean tense. “We’ll come quietly.”

Ruby smiled, taking Dean by the hand. “Good.”

~~

“Shame about Harvelle keeping so many volatile chemicals in her little mansion.” Dick Roman, suited and smug, sat across from Dean. “Not that you would believe me but that little accident? None of Jo Harvelle and – who was your little friend? – Kevin Tran’s blood is on SHIELD’s hands. Not officially, at least.”

Dean said nothing. He had not seen Dasha since they had been shepherded into separate vans – which would have been hilarious if Dean could trust the snake that had made his home in Singer’s chair.

“How about some coffee? No? Water?” Dean remained silent as he shrugged, watching Dick pour the water into the pitiful plastic cup. Dean sat on his hands, tightening his grip on the chair. There were, undoubtedly, already dents in the plastic but Dean could not find it in himself to care. “Well, Cap, I’ll be taking some coffee. It’s pretty good.” Dick turned to go to the machine.

Dean knew that, he had last drank from it about two weeks ago. Agent Hanscum had cashed in for the new machine a few years back and they had all sampled its luxury. Now, that group included Dick. “Dean, Dean. We shared news of Robert Singer’s death – my good friend’s death – with you, and you hardly batted an eyelid.” He set Dean’s cup, now full of water, down. “Now, why was that?”

“Because I don’t bend over for Dick like everyone else,” he said, uncaring of his tone, before raising his plastic cup in a mocking toast and drinking all of it. Restraining himself from pummelling Dick into the ground was thirsty work.

Dick chuckled humorlessly. “Ah, your wit is astonishing. I would almost think that you weren’t trying to deflect the question if I didn’t know otherwise.” His teeth glinted in the artificial lighting. “How did you know, Dean? What part did you and your Avengers play in his death?”

Then he leaned forward into Dean’s personal space. “Conspiracy, destruction of property, murder – these are all acts of terrorism. And we, as a nation, feel pretty strongly about terrorists. Maybe I can’t make you talk, super as you are, but is Miss Daria quite as resilient?” Dean’s jaw clenched. “You survived a little holiday in the ice.” Dick was smiling now and Dean felt a wave of loathing hit his gut. “Maybe we should give her a similar vacation?”

“Listen here, you son of a bitch. Touch her and I’ll personally make sure you’re looking over your shoulder for the rest of your miserable life.” Dick smirked, leaning back.

“Good, now we’re getting somewhere. You have something I want, I have leverage. So, I’m guessing Singer suggested something that you did not approve of – perhaps the new anti-terrorism measures – or perhaps you discovered the placement of Agent Braeden..?”

~

“Dean.” She was behind him, slender arm around his back, rosy lips pressed briefly into his neck. He was seated, shirt loose and uniform dishevelled. “This is not the only way.” Her hands wandered and his eyes closed, allowing his other, enhanced senses to explore. Her scent, the sound of her breathing, the warmth of her touch, it both overwhelmed and entranced him.

“Lisa,” he exhaled, heart beating faster.

“You,” she whispered, nibbling on his ear. “Are so much more. More than how you see yourself.” His breath hitched and she smiled into his neck.

“Stay still.” Dean would not have moved if he had been paid a million dollars, excitement building in every cell of his body. Here, he was alive.

“You are more than a lab rat.” She kissed him, hands running up through his hair.

“You are more than a dancing monkey.” She trailed kisses down his jaw, warm breath catching on his faint stubble.

“You are Dean Winchester.” She moved to sit in his lap, gazing down at him as if he were made of gold. “And you are worth the world.”

~

“Braeden?” he asked, unsettled. Lisa Braeden was frail and if Dick had dragged her into this, Dean would be sure end him himself. “Look, Dick, you’re saying a lot of words just to get under my skin and I don’t believe one word of it.”

Dick smirked. “You don’t have to. Ruby Braeden, a fine agent. Perhaps I’ll ask her out to dinner after we’re finished here.”

Dean’s blood froze, staring at Dick as if he had sprouted another head. It felt as if Dean had just attempted to force his hands into shoes and his feet into gloves, there was something inherently wrong crawling under his skin. His face had flushed and it was taking all of his willpower not to fling the chair at Dick.

Dick’s expression made it clear that he was reading Dean like an open book. “Well. Perhaps we should reconvene in about an hour, Cap – let you have time for all this to, well, sink in.” He scraped his chair against the floor as he stood, smiling toothily and reminded Dean of a predator that had cornered its prey. Any moment now, he was sure that Dick was going to try and swallow him whole.

Better Dean than Lisa’s child. Dean shuddered.

“I’ll see you soon, Dean,” he cooed. “Real soon.”

~~

Only, he did not. Barely fifteen minutes had gone by before Thor appeared behind him, laid a hand on his shoulder and they both disappeared. “Are you alright?”

Dean shook him off, trying to work out where he was. “Is Kevin? Jo? What about Dasha?”

Thor took a step back, hair moving in the breeze. They were outside, an open space. “I came as soon as I heard and I am only sorry that it took this long. Tell me about what happened in the events preceding your capture.”

“Thor, I’m fine,” stated Dean, shaking his head. “Look at me, right as rain. Who told you I was in trouble?” Perhaps he was the one with the squad – a squad of Asgardians - who sent Thor straight to him whenever trouble reared its ugly head. The thought was not unappealing, just a little odd. Surely he had better things to do than babysit.

The aforementioned Asgardian’s eyes burned into Dean, seemingly scanning him, and Dean was forced to look away. There was something about that gaze that almost made him flinch. “I always know, Dean. But there are some things I need you to share with me – your human nuances could save lives. What did Harvelle know about the evidence?”

“I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal-”

“I need to know everything you do about the evidence,” said Thor sharply. “It is vitally important. I need to take it back and keep it safe. Where is it?”

Dean stumbled and Thor caught him by the collar, hauling him upwards and staring into his face. “Tell me where you’ve hidden it. Tell me where it is, Dean!” His fingers were talons and Dean had neither the strength nor the energy to struggle free.

Breathing was becoming more difficult as the pressure built. “I don’t know, Thor-”

Then Thor struck him. The back of his hand hit Dean’s cheek and it hurt- stung. Once the initial pain had worn off, only confusion remained.

For one, a blow like that should have knocked him flying but Dean remained in Thor’s hold. There was no blood, only something that felt like a bruise forming. This was typical, normal henchmen who could land a good punch could bruise Dean but Asgardians? With their type of force, a bruise was more likely to have resulted from a flick than a slap.

The last clue was Thor’s expression – it was nothing short of loathing. There was a hatred in his eyes that Dean had never seen before. Not with aliens, not with HYDRA nor Nazis nor women who had been an expecting a date with Sam, never. It warped Thor’s face, distorted it, and Dean was taken aback.

“I don’t know who you are but it sure as hell ain’t Thor,” he snarled. For a moment, the impostor smirked at him. The blue light of his eyes flickered, a sinister ripple at the edge of his smile, before he let go of Dean, who fell to his knees. If the impostor licked his lips, Dean was too disgusted to care.

Then the impostor ran a hand - Thor’s hand - down Dean's cheek in a gesture that almost felt affectionate before letting it fall. “But, oh, don’t you wish that I was.” The impostor wiped his hand down the side of his trousers, disgusted. Dean had, aware of the trickery, subconsciously leaned into the hand and he felt used; conflicting emotions and thoughts and sensations and anger boiling inside of him. The impostor winked.

Then there was a pain like his skull being torn apart from the inside and Dean screamed.

~~

“Oh come on, everyone must’ve had that some point!” laughed Charlie, legs curled up on the chair like a cat. The rest of them sat around her. Dean was listening, too amused not to, but he could not be certain that everyone else was. Garth lurked behind him, seemingly trying to keep an eye on them in a way that involved avoiding the conversation. Dasha had perched on the edge of Charlie’s chair, shoes kicked off and wine glass in hand.

Jo claimed another chair but was staring down, fingers moving quickly. To Dean, it appeared that she was texting. The edges of her lips were tilted upwards and there was a faintly pink stain along her cheeks which explained why she was not taking full part in the conversation.

“Just picture it: little Charlie, brain pumped full of heteronormativity and arrows. She hears about this tall-dark-and-handsome guy with super skills who messes with the government for fun. My first – and only – male crush. How was I to know that I was gay? Maybe he’s the one dude I’d go straight for.”

Dasha swatted at her and Dean shook his head, grinning. But Thor – who was standing - spoke up. “I can empathise with that. Before I was certain of my own sexual orientation, the idea of lying with men was disturbing and now I am indifferent to gender.”

Dean choked on air and Charlie giggled, turning to Thor with an amused smile. “I’m so glad, buddy, I thought I was gonna be all alone with the hets-”

“That’s bi erasure, Charlie, because I’ve gone on dates with my fabulous CEO and she was definitely a woman last time I checked - which was earlier this morning, just in case you were wondering.” A groan rippled across the room and Dean used the distraction to finish his whiskey. Not a damn thing.

A few hours later and Dean was still stone cold sober. Dasha and Charlie had found Jo’s hot tub and appeared to be complaining about the lack of iron swimsuits which a sloshed Jo seemed to be trying to defend – Dean could not tell, the words were slurring into each other.

Not that he disapproved, not at all, just that he missed it. There had been a competition to lift Thor’s hammer and Dean had gotten the closest, quirking an eyebrow at Thor when he did. Garth had headed upstairs, feeling the need for sleep, and Kevin had gone home stating that his mother was hosting a small get-together the next day and he could not afford to be hungover.

“Not that you’ll have to worry about that, Cap,” Kevin had laughed, hand lingering on his shoulder.

Although tempted to jump in the hot tub with them, Dean hung back. It would be weird and, looking at Jo, he still saw Ellen. Ellen had been so young and Jo was practically middle-aged. Seventy years had really hit the Harvelle family, just as it should have hit him.

“You are not partaking in that?” Dean had not noticed Thor in his approach and turned, tips of his ears burning.

“Nah. Charlie needs space to make her move with Dasha and Jo needs space to fall in without squashing anyone.” Dean’s gaze flicked from Thor’s intense stare to the girls and back again, suddenly feeling a little restless. Thor was still staring at him and seemed content with that so Dean scrambled for something else to say. “What about you? Don’t want to show off that alien chest of yours?”

Dean wondered vaguely if that had sounded as awkward aloud as it did in his head. If it had, Thor was unfazed. “Angel, rather than alien, although I suppose we are quite alien to humans. As for the stripping, I have no need to.”

“Neither do they, Thor.” There was something aloof in Thor’s tone that made Dean feel uncomfortable. Both Asgardians and angels were part of a religion and yet, they were very different beings. Dean put it down to a slip of the tongue. “They’re just having fun.”

This seemed to amuse Thor, the edges of his lip curling. The bright blue eyes watched Dean for another minute before he slowly drew a bejewelled flask from his pocket. He turned it over in his hand once, as if admiring it, before holding it out to Dean. “This has aged for one thousand years. It may be able to bypass even your enhanced immune system.”

Dean licked his lips, intrigued. “Oh yeah?”

“It is said to be quite overwhelming for mortals so do not feel that you must ingest any.” There was an element of challenge behind the words and Dean took the flask from him, a grin lining his features.

“Yeah? We’ll see.” Then he put the flask to his lips.

~~

The first thing that registered was the headache. He could hear the shrieking outside – birdsong, machines whirring – and the blinding light that blistered his eyes – open curtains, invasive torch. This was a pain that Dean had not missed but there was something miraculous in being able to feel it again. Not quite perfect, his body still had some flaws – and they were exploiting them. His first hangover in seventy years.

Sitting up gradually, he looked around the room. Empty – full of enemies. It would have been pleasant to close his eyes and return to sleep – the sun had never been this bright before, Dean was sure – but he had an awful lot of things to do. He sat up too quickly, pulling a robe from behind the door and taking a moment to regain his balance as the blood rushed to his head. Not good but worse things could happen – were happening. Worse things had happened, he thought to himself with a wry smile.

The robe was embroidered with an H, silky material a deep magenta colour. This was not good. He dressed quickly – limbs seizing uselessly against the restraints, tugging and tensing but remaining trapped. Perhaps the robe had been left as a prank, it was impossible to tell but there was a phantom touch running across his body and Dean had no idea what had caused it.

He saw Jo on the way back to her workshop, headgear in place and arms full of technology that Dean did not even try to recognise. “Morning, Cap. Next time, don’t hit on me when I’m literally on the phone with my girlfriend.” Then she laughed and Dean joined in, if a little awkwardly. H for Harvelle and now Jo was flirting. “Although I’m not complaining, the jealousy sex was great. I’d high-five you but I’ve got work to do.” She grinned at him, stalling a little too long. “That evidence, who’d you give it to?”

Jo was not the cause of the phantom touches, then, and Dean could almost feel Ellen’s sigh of relief. “I don’t know.”

Suddenly, without warning, Dean found himself in a body half his size again. He looked down at bony wrists, looked across at his date’s back, looked up at a colourful banner. World Exposition of Tomorrow. Ellen Harvelle stood on the stage, barely out of her teens, and grinning at the audience as if each one had individually complimented her. Then again, Dean supposed, by showing up to the event, they probably had.

“Ladies, gentlemen, purveyors of the wonderful and harbourers of curiosity! I am honoured to be here tonight and I hope y’all are enjoying your evening.” Dean fixed his gaze on her, refusing to look (or so much as glance) anywhere else. In that moment, she was captivating and memory had rendered his vision peripheral. “And I have something wonderful to share with you all, if you will bear with me for just a moment.”

Then Sam hauled him forwards, one arm around a woman – Bonnie or Connie or something like that – and the other draped over his shoulder. “I read about this in the paper yesterday. If she’s doing what I think she’s doing, that girl is brilliant.”

“Sounds like you came with the wrong date,” quipped Dean, anticipating the glares before they came and grinning back. Then his gaze was back on Ellen Harvelle, searching her face for anything he could relate to Jo. Ellen was smooth where Jo had laughter lines. Ellen was hazel where Jo was blonde.

Ellen was gone whereas Jo, and himself, were still here.

“Dean, get this,” said Sam, dragging back his attention with a jerkiness that seemed unnatural. “This new thing – critics say she’s stark raving mad – whatever it is she’s got, that it might have fallen down from the sky.” Sam’s eyes did not sparkle, as they usually did when caught up in an idea, and the inflection was a little off. There was no familiarity about the words, either, and it did not feel like a fully-formed memory. “Something from a place called Asgard.”

Instead of talking, Dean took a step towards his big, younger brother and held him close. There was a warmth in the embrace that Dean had missed. Sam Winchester with a steady heartbeat, Sam Winchester full of wide smiles and more confidence than he knew what to do with. This was his brother before the war, before the train.

Dean squinted his eyes shut, refusing to let any tears fall. Not for these assholes. Then he tore away from Sam, anger radiating from him like heat from a bulb. “How about we save the trip down memory lane for someone who gives a shit, Dick?”

Sam’s grin flickered, the colours of the Exposition dimming, and then there was a flash – it was akin to lightning, in Dean’s eyes – before his scenery levelled out. A room, a bleak, colourless grey with black in the foreground. Beeping, whirring, something fizzing – electrical sounds that Jo would be able to identify in a heartbeat but could not be more foreign to Dean.

“Fancy telling us what you know, Dean?” It was not Dick – instead a SHIELD agent that Dean recognised. Cole. Dean scowled at him, wishing he could break the restraints and punch the man’s lights out. “Or not.”

Dean, drenched in sweat and exhaustion as he was, was still hanging onto every word. Something helpful would have to fall from the man’s sorry lips, something that could make this situation just a little bit clearer.

Cole turned back to the other inhabitants of the room, hands on his hips. “Why don’t we just slate him, too? Wipe his memory clean and send him to kill off his team? You can never have enough super soldiers, right?”

It took a moment for the meaning of the last phrase to sink in but, when it did, Dean seethed. One of the men hissed at Cole to be quiet but the damage had been done. “Who are you doing this to?” roared Dean, pulling at the machine with renewed vigour. “Who else are you torturing? When I get out of here, I will teach you the meaning of pain.”

Cole turned back to him, lip curled into a sneer. “Will you now, Dean-o? I’d like to believe you, I really would, but when you get up from there, you’re not really going to be Dean anymore.” He chuckled. “Definitely not Captain America.”

Then there was another bright flash and Dean braced himself, eyes closing and fists clenching.

But the pain Dean had been expecting did not come. Confused, Dean opened his eyes to see Cole knocked backwards and Kevin’s form begin to solidify. “Need a hand there, Cap?” He sliced through the restraints with his wing, smiling. Dean stumbled forward and he caught him, concern etched across his features. “Hey, hey. Talk to me, Dean. How awesome is redwing?”

Dean coughed, vaguely aware of Dasha taking out someone behind them, and not seeing Jo’s device anywhere. “Yeah. Aerodynamic,” he said, his throat dry but face marked by a grim smile.

“Obviously,” smirked Kevin, “Harvelle tech, it's not exactly your standard drone. Right, let’s get you out of here. Hold on tight.” Clutching him to his chest with one arm, Kevin glanced up at the ceiling. “You lot okay to clear up here?” he asked.

“Oh yeah,” said Charlie, drawing an arrow and catching a soldier between the eyes. “I mean, it’s no big deal, just got to get to that computer-” She fired another arrow which promptly exploded. “And get in, past the numerous firewalls and everything else nasty that they’ve got protecting their system. I mean, she only leaked my nudes to freaking HYDRA.”

Dasha stopped to reload her guns and Kevin immobilised the man behind her with a single shot. The sound of gunfire rang in Dean’s ears but, in Kevin’s embrace, he was safe. “I needed something that looked important, you should take it as a compliment-!”

“Yeah,” said Kevin to Dean, smiling faintly. “They’re gonna be just fine.”

~~

Dean was sure that, whatever they had done to him in HYDRA, some of its effects were still swimming around his system. When Kevin set him down, his knees threatened to give way and the gentle but firm pair of hands that helped him belonged to someone else he had seen die in New York. Dean resolved to not make a big deal out of it until he could see the person’s real face.

“Where’re we going?” he asked groggily, scraping his foot against the smooth tiles. When they had managed to make it inside, Dean had no idea but there was no energy left in him for fighting.

“Somewhere safe,” said Kevin, turning around from in front. His smile was reassuring but Dean could not quite trust it. Not trust his perception of it, at least. “Not that we’re staying for long – we’ve got work to do.”

“Oh, you betcha. They’ve been working real hard behind the scenes and Dick Roman’s been making things pretty tough for the few of us left.” Dean’s vision blurred and he stumbled again, crashing into Kevin as he did so. “Whoops! Careful there, Dean.”

“Thanks,” he said gruffly, rubbing his forehead where it had smacked against Kevin’s tech. They kept walking and Dean tried to take more notice of his surroundings but it was no use. Each patch of wall was identical to the last he saw and none of it was memorable. “Listen, I don’t need babysitting and I’m sure both of you have other stuff to be doing.”

Kevin opened a door and the woman – fake Donna, Dean decided – ushered him through it. “Never thought of you as shy, Cap,” teased Kevin, shutting the door behind them. It was, what appeared to be, a small office. There were desks, computers, and an odd briefcase left behind – nothing spectacular. “Jo claimed this was Harvelle Industries complaints department.” Dean had no idea if she had been joking or not.

Then one of the chairs spun around. Victor Henriksen sat in it, files in hand and expression grim. “Take a seat, Cap.” He gestured at the ones that had been positioned around his desk and Dean slipped into one, not entirely sure what he was meant to do. Victor placed the shield on the desk in front of him emotionlessly. “We know the identity of your assailant.”

“Well, the first one,” said Kevin.

“You’ve been pretty popular recently, Cap,” said not-Donna, reaching over as if to ruffle his hair. Dean flinched away, not wanting any more people to reach into his head.

“Now, don’t get us wrong, we have the resources to take him out but we felt like – after all you’ve done for this country – you deserve the chance-”

“Who was he?” interrupted Dean, not particularly wanting to spend the valuable napping time having long-winded discussions.

Not-Donna’s hand found his shoulder and he saw Kevin turn away. Henriksen cleared his throat and Dean’s brow furrowed. “Samuel Winchester.” Dean was on his feet, staring at the man in front of him.

“Impossible.”

“We have photographic-”

“My brother is DEAD.” Dean was shaking, staring at Henriksen as if Dean’s glare alone could bury him. Thoughts and feelings and sensations. “Don’t fuck with me, Victor. My brother fell hundreds of feet off a moving freight train. I SAW him fall-” Heard him scream. If Sam had been alive all this time-

“Dean, it’s true-”

“THEN HE’S BEEN TORTURED FOR SEVENTY FUCKING YEARS.” The other super soldier. If Sam had been subjected to the visions and the drugs and the pain for years...

Silence, save for Dean’s heavy breathing, and he turned away from them. All of this - from fighting to destroy HYDRA to keeping his promise to keep on living – had been to ensure his little brother had not died in vain. He squinted his eyes shut, not wanting to see or feel or think, but the darkness just seemed to make the thoughts louder. “Dean?”

He brought his fist down on the desk hard and it split, shield falling to the floor. “We’re gonna avenge Bobby,” he said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice as he opened his eyes.

“And I’m gonna save Sam.” Their expressions softened, marginally, and Dean took it as a signal to continue. “If you’ve got anything – tech, information, allies, whatever – that can help me, tell me now or so help me God, you’re next.”

Silence. Dean could feel their irritation and he was vaguely aware of Henriksen holding up a hand to quieten Donna. “Agents Braeden and Foster are with Dick Roman now,” Henriksen told him. “The Winter Soldier’s current location is unknown but I imagine he is close by. Agents Daria and Bradbury found the cryogenic facilities empty so he must still be out in the open.”

“Then we find him and we bring him home.”

~~

They were evenly matched. That was the only thought that was quick enough to cross Dean’s mind as they grappled, as they scraped, as the blood flowed from their wounds and the knife skidded across the concrete and his shield impaled a nearby vehicle. As the suburban scenery around him became obsolete – Sam, the soldier, Sam the Winter Soldier ripped the car door off its hinges and flung it at him – and as Dean threw punch after punch.

The metal arm made sense, grim as it was. A fall from that height was impossible to survive unscathed – even for someone like Dean. Dean did not know what they had done to Sam, locked in the prisoner of war camp, but he reasoned that it must have been something similar. If it had not been finished then, it had been finished now.

Perfected, to some extent, save for the way they had torn away Sam’s will. Dean did not want to think that they had torn out his tongue but it was a possibility. Dean did not want to know what they had done to Sam but everything from a botched lobotomy to a Wolverine-esque skeleton was a possibility. It scared him.

But the factor that scared Dean the most was the way Sam – his little brother, his best friend, the one who had always had this glorious, burning sense of empathy – could regard him with cold, emotionless eyes and calculate the best way of killing him.

Then the shield was in his hand again and the soldier’s neck was exposed and Dean knew that he could lunge. Fracture something, render him motionless for long enough to stop him for good. In that fraction of a second, Dean hesitated and the soldier seized his chance, lashing out at Dean’s legs and sending him over onto his back.

Dean’s head hit the concrete and he barely had time to roll out of the way of the metal arm’s attack which bit through the concrete in Dean’s absence. Breathe, the world was not standing still and Dean did not have the space to stand. Then the knife was back – “SAM!” – and it went straight through Dean’s-

Chest, he had thought, but, at the last minute, the hand had jerked lower, plunging the knife into his thigh instead. Dean’s eyes widened, confusion flickering across his face. “Sammy?” The soldier twitched, hand still fixed on the blade.

The pain was by no means numb and Dean’s left fist clenched, fingernails digging into his palm in an attempt to hold back the pain. Dean was fully aware of the fact that he had been stabbed and it was no shallow flesh wound – if the blade had been poisoned, which he would not put it past HYDRA to have done, then he would be in trouble.

But, at that instant, those were not the thoughts that crossed his mind. Reaching up, he snatched the mask off the soldier’s face and his face became Sam’s again. Battered, bruised, bleeding Sam. “Sam, it’s me. It’s Dean.” He reached up to cup his brother’s cheek, trying to get Sam to meet his eyes. “Sammy?”

“DON’T!” Sam withdrew the blade and his metal fist hit Dean’s chest. The air was knocked out of Dean, aching as if he had been in a much larger collision. Then Sam’s other hand hit Dean’s jaw.

“I’m not gonna fight you anymore,” wheezed Dean which seemed to rile Sam further. The punches kept coming and Dean could feel his vision clouding over, face becoming bloodstained and blotchy. “You’re my brother.”

“SHUT UP!” It was a snap, a command, and the metal hand closed around Dean’s throat. “I don’t. Know you.” Dean could feel the grip tightening and he scrambled for breath, air carving its path down his innards.

“Yeah you do,” exhaled Dean, desperately trying to retain the last of his consciousness. “You’re my brother.” His air supply was dropping fast and he was exhausted. “There’s nothing.” The pressure built and Dean felt light-headed. “I wouldn’t do.” Sam had become a silhouette, a blurred figure, a shadow with vice-like grip. “For you.”

~~~~  
BELA  
The last thing Bela Talbot’s life could be called was comfortable. To put it simply, there was nothing comfortable about her life. Her apartment was wooden floorboards; a mattress that doubled as a sofa; whiskey and yesterday’s takeout decaying in a fridge that had needed cleaning since God-knows-when and a front door that a client had shattered.

She appreciated the whiskey and thought the passion was amusing. Then she had seen them out, money in her pocket and object of their desires, well, a little less desirable. But, for what it was worth, she was a woman of her word. Kept her nose clean, whenever she could, and kept herself to herself.

There was a routine in the solitude. Returning at shit o’clock in the morning with a bottle of whatever, transfer secured and nothing to listen to but the blood pounding in her ears. In kissing a diamond, just for something to kiss, before she sent it on to the client who had requested it.

Loneliness had never troubled her before - if she wanted that kind of comfort, New York had bars and her standards were far from Disney princesses. Bela had had her fill of Jasmines and Auroras back in London, in another life.

Crushing the glass between her fingers had been a mistake but it attracted the bartender’s attention and one thing had lead to another. The woman's hair was full of natural, rich curls and there was an innocence in her face that Bela found endearing. She was slim, lithe, and wonderfully receptive.

Bela only found out the woman’s name when the woman fumbled for her key to her apartment and there had not been much of an opportunity for talking at that point. There had been time to lose a few fingers in her hair and to let her eyes roll backwards as their bodies moved together. More than enough time, in truth, and Bela was not one to deny herself the little pleasures that life had to offer.

The two of them only spoke a little before the woman’s arm wrapped around her shoulder, pulling her in close. It was the best night’s sleep Bela had had in years.

In the morning, Bela pressed a kiss onto her forehead and headed to the modest bathroom. But something caught her eye that triggered almost every flight sensation in her. There, above the sink, was a photograph. A picture of a man that made Bela’s breath catch in her throat, eyes widening. She stumbled backwards, picking up her jeans from the floor and trying to swallow the nausea that threatened to overpower her.

“Hey-” the woman started softly before catching sight of Bela’s expression. “Are you okay?”

Far from it. Bela eased her features into something that resembled a pained smile. “That man. Who is he?” Is, as if he still mattered.

“He was my husband.” The woman gave a humourless chuckle. “He was murdered.”

Bile rose in the back of Bela’s throat. “Right. I see.” The smile was still forced and Bela had a feeling that the woman could tell.

As the woman sat up, looking confused and almost alarmed, Bela pulled her shirt on over her head. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

Bela shook her head, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Another day, another lie - that was just the way it was. “Nothing. I just-” I was the one who killed him. “-I thought I recognised him. That’s all.”

~~

The life of a private- well, investigator was not a simple one. Bela lived with her own demons. Whiskey, a short temper and men in purple with hands that wandered and silver tongues. Well, she meant men in the loosest of terms - there had only ever been one. One who had curled her lips, bought her everything he thought she might desire, had her heeding his beck and call.

But he was dead and she was not. Not yet. Bela was still fighting.

The Lawrence Complex had been bought out by some new money and a wealthy client had offered money for information. Hardly a complex task, Bela had accepted it with no qualms. She used the fire exit to scale the walls, moving silently and snapping photos as she did so. Men with guns, suits of black, shady but nothing explicitly illegal.

A man and a woman were going at it in one of the rooms, woman asking if he loved her. Bela’s nose wrinkled, snapping a photo of the silhouettes and then one of the woman’s face before continuing on. Hardly the classiest of settings but she had done worse.

Not that she was really the epitome of class, not anymore. She smiled to herself, heading for the top floor but stopped when something caught her eye. It was there, about five flights of stairs high, and practically dripping with mystery. An unrecognised, illicit substance, she could argue, potentially drugs. Potentially dangerous.

The room appeared to be some sort of working library - quite different from the rest of the building. There were bookshelves, there were stacks of paper, there were graphs and sketches and pages of scribbled handwriting. But, in the very centre, there was a glass case on a podium. It was showcased like an antique in a museum, practically inviting theft.

In her eyes, it was liquid light. It gave off a soft glow, contained in a crystal-like vial, and seemed to hum through the glass. Something about it pulled on Bela’s heartstrings and she was enamoured, safety aside. It could easily be worth a couple thousand or it would make a pleasant night light. Either way, it needed to be hers.

She cracked the lock on the window and slipped inside, smirking. Her movements across the floor were more akin to gliding than footsteps, silent and delicate. The slightest sound could bring the guards down on her and, although she was likely to be capable of fighting her way out, it would not be the optimum outcome.

Voices echoed from the corridor outside and she dived under the table, hugging her knees in close. The door swung open and slammed against the wall. “I just can’t work in these conditions! I don’t know what you expect but if your boss wants something professional, they are going to have to give me more time.”

There were sounds like a struggle before something hit the table with a thud. Bela stifled a gasp behind her hand, clenching her fist. “Listen here, Devereaux,” growled a second voice. “If you want to see your wife and daughter alive again, you’re going to have to try a little harder.” Bela’s jaw tightened, reaching for her knife.

There had been four sets of footsteps which implied three guards with the captive. If they had guns - and Bela presumed that they did - her odds were not fantastic but she had come out of worse. Deep breath.

“Fine, alright! Just give me some breathing room and a couple more hours.” The voice was laboured, seemingly not handling the stress well. “We’ll get you something not even the infamous Hawkeye can crack.”

That made Bela smile. These idiots were clearly aiming too high and their security was, in truth, pathetic. If they expected to take on the Avengers and win, they needed to, in their own words, try a little harder.

Then she sprang, knife slitting the first man’s throat as the elderly Devereaux jumped backwards. She caught the second’s gun, ripped it from his grasp and pointed it at the third. “Hello boys,” Bela smirked. “Shall we talk or shall I-?”

There was a shooting pain in her side and the gun slipped from her hands and she scowled. Bad move, that was going to hurt in the morning. She lunged forward and winced as the pain became more intense. “How about we take it slow, Miss Talbot?”

Bela turned to glare at the one that knew her name which only seemed to make him smile. “What’s in this?”

The man shrugged unhelpfully. “Oh, a little of this, a little of that. But it’s enough to, shall we say, level the playing field? The more you struggle, the more the solution pumps through your veins.” He ruffled her hair before pushing her towards the wall. “Now, just wait until your handler arrives. We’ve got a special job for you.”

There was an electric buzz and he clipped one of her hands to the wall with some sort of technological horseshoe. She pulled against it but the blood in her wrist felt as if it were boiling and she stopped, sweat lining her forehead. “When I get out of this, I’m going to bend you in half,” she said, eyes narrowing.

The man only laughed, strapping her other hand to the wall. “We shall see.” Then he turned to Devereaux. “Keep working, old man-” But Deveraux had picked up the dead man’s gun and fired a loud gunshot, shooting the other soldier in the back. But the backfire had taken him by surprise - clearly a novice - and the gun had fallen from his quivering hand. Bela grimaced, anticipating the worst. Amateurs and assholes, that was what the world had come to.

“You fool!” snapped the remaining soldier, not even sparing a glance for his two dead colleagues. He picked up Bela’s knife and plunged it into the man’s stomach. “Don’t worry, you’ll be seeing your family very soon.”

Then he ran from the room, leaving them both. Bela took another deep breath before beginning to pull at her restraints. Every cell of her body protested against the movement but she knew that she needed to free herself or she would find herself in a similar situation to Deveraux.

Speaking of, he was dragging himself towards the podium. Bela watched as he hauled himself up, pushed the glass lid away and took the vial for himself. There was shouting in a European language from above and more men burst through the door, guns up.

“HEY!” yelled Bela, successfully distracting one or two. Distraction. Distraction. “You are all wearing the wrong kevlar. With his eye colour and your jawline?” She raised an eyebrow, challenging them to defend their attire. The men did not seem to appreciate the humour but she had only wanted to buy time, anyway, although she was not sure what she was waiting for.

At that moment, Deveraux’s eyes glowed and, raising his arm, he filled the room with a blinding light. Suddenly, the pain in Bela seemed to flow away. She smiled, pulling herself free and throwing the clips across the room.

There was a whine that sounded like a far-off siren. Bela dodged the bullets, only one grazing her, and knocked the gun out of the first man’s hand before knocking him backwards with it. Another bullet caught Bela, this time in the shoulder, and she winced. Not good, the shirt was going to need replacing - and the blood flow needed to stop.

Another door opened as Bela was grappling with one of the soldiers. The man grabbed her shoulder and dug his fingers in and so, in retaliation, she raised her knee up into his crotch. His cry of pain was satisfying; her shoulder feeling as if it was burning up from the inside was less so.

The door to the main corridor swung open, pushing her aside as more men swept into the room. Bela staggered, bloody hand pressed into the wall as she tried to steady herself. Then she stumbled, sliding back into the corner. Her vision blurred and she was only vaguely aware of the battle raging around her. Could she smell smoke?

More men - and she lost sight of Deveraux. Bela rolled her eyes, dug the bullet out of her shoulder and pressed down on the wound. It was beginning to feel quite warm. If the old man got himself killed, Bela was going to feel a little bit guilty as it may have been, slightly, her fault.

Bela steadied herself, breathing deeply in an attempt to blot out the pain. Then she entered the battle once again, sending the nearest man flying. It was easy to get into the swing of things now that she was moving.

Fortunately, the odds had evened out and, even with her wound, the fighting itself was not as strenuous as she had been anticipating.

Captain America himself had arrived - Bela had no idea how - and the majority of the attackers seemed to consider him the bigger threat. Then there was another agent - blonde, leather-clad, and lethal - who momentarily caught Bela’s eye. That woman was trained, Bela could tell, and there was an elegance in the fighting style that seemed unnatural, given their situation.

Then there was Hawkeye herself, absorbed in her work and rapidly shooting arrow after arrow. Someone nearby aimed a gun at Charlie and Bela snapped it in half before throwing him at the wall. “Try a little harder.”

She did reach Deveraux and he forced the vial into her hand. “Take- it!”

As much as Bela wanted to keep it herself, she tried to push it back into his - now tightly clenched - hand. “You heal yourself first, then I'll go.”

Deveraux shook his head. “Waste. Limited supply in wrong hands.” He wheezed another breath.

“Trust me, mine aren't the right hands-”

“Keep it closed. Secret.” He looked awfully pale and Bela reached for his hand.

“Stay with me, old man,” she instructed, a wobble in her tone. She felt his pulse. Weak.

“CHARLIE!” yelled Bela, other hand still holding the vial that could save him if he was less stubborn. “Tell me how to save you,” she implored but he remained silent.

It could not have been more than a minute before the woman reached them. But it was long enough. “Is he..?” asked the blonde and Bela nodded.

“His last words were to give this to the captain.” She handed the bloodstained vial to the woman, nauseous even to look at the object that Deveraux - a stranger to Bela - had thought more valuable than his own life. “Don’t open it, don't make it public.”

The woman did not seem to understand. “For Dean?”

Bela smiled, tight-lipped. “Into Captain America’s worthy hands with love from the dead man. Maybe you should wrap it up in a little box with don't open until Christmas on the side.”

The woman looked irritated but Bela did not care, turning her back on her. “You'll have to come to debriefing.”

Bela did not look back. “I'm an innocent civilian who just watched a man die, Agent, cut me some slack.”

~~

The drop off was a waste of time. The carefully collated images, the typed quotations, the detailed sketch of the symbol she had seen on the soldiers’ jackets - useless. Her client did not even attempt to show up.

To say that Bela had felt irritated was an understatement. Her income was barely enough to cover rent on a good day and she had given up the potentially-expensive vial on account of morals. So Bela felt justified in wanting to hunt the bastard down and collect her money.

Her phone was in hand before she could stop herself, dialling the deleted but painfully-remembered number belonging to one Charlie Bradbury.

Only, the phone never rang. Bela’s first instinct suggested trouble - perhaps more reinforcements had come and finished her off, perhaps whatever secret club Charlie and Dean Winchester worked for had decided that she was not useful anymore.

“She changed her number,” said a voice and Bela turned, glaring. “Said it was because of phone problems. Device issues, tech overheating, not enough space for the Harry Potter Wiki app, that sort of thing. Problems she could have solved if the contacts were worth keeping.”

“If you're here to debrief me, I would rather you didn't bother.” Bela fixed her attention on the woman now. “Although a name would be nice.”

“Daria. And I'm just returning your knife, actually.” Daria withdrew the knife from her purse and ran her finger along the handle.

“So who are you, then? Her girlfriend? Because I'm pretty sure that she wouldn't take too kindly to the whole fake menacing persona you've got going on here.” If Daria had her mind set on being a nuisance, Bela was not going to respond in passive niceties.

“It's not fake,” Daria laughed. “We just work together-”

“I gathered that much,” said Bela, cutting across her sharply.

“So you're not completely blind. That's a surprise.” The retort was more amused than scathing but it riled Bela.

“And what's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you broke her heart, Bela. And sure, you were both young and stupid but you shouldn't say that kind of stuff if you didn't mean any of it.”

~~

“Tell me if you are seeing anyone.” The voice is smooth and arrogant, accompanied by a self-satisfied sneer on his sallow features.

“Yes, a woman.” The last of Bela’s will was desperately trying to let as little information as possible pass through her lips.

“Forget her.” Charlie’s face, traits, body and name slip from Bela’s memory. The slate was wiped clean. “You love me, as I love you. Say it.”

Tears formed in Bela’s eyes but she could not resist. “I love you.” The words burned her tongue and she choked back a sob.

“Cheer up, Bela, we've got plenty to do today. Dry your eyes.”

Bela raised her sleeve to her eyes and wiped away the tears. When her hands moved away from her face, they revealed a large smile.

Then the man pulled her into his embrace and the euphoric glee that consumed her - cheer up - was nauseating.

~~

“It's really none of your business.” Bela replied, guarded.

“If you're going to start calling her up every time you think that you need a favour then yeah, it is.” There was nothing warm in Daria’s expression and Bela’s eyes narrowed.

“I'm not going to explain myself to you. It's adorable that you think I can be intimidated so easily, it really is, but I'm a busy woman and I really don't have time for this.”

Daria took a step closer. “Make time.”

Bela rolled her eyes and turned away. “Goodbye, Daria.”

But apparently that was not the end of their interaction. Daria’s hand reached for Bela’s shoulder and a wave of revulsion surged through her. Physical contact, after memories of him had resurfaced, was most unwelcome.

But perhaps Bela could have handled it better. The touch scalded her skin and, instinctively, Bela’s fist swung. There was no time for regret now.

But Daria was faster, dodging out of the way, and Bela’s fist barely skimmed her neck. Yet with her strength, all of it accidentally thrown into the blind reaction, she knew it must have hurt.

Then Daria’s feet hit the back of Bela’s shins and her legs nearly gave way. Bela blocked the first punch, catching Daria’s hand in hers, but Daria used the momentum to slide underneath, flipping Bela onto her back - hard - as she did so.

With agile ease, Daria was on her feet again, standing over Bela with a cold expression. “It's been a long day but if you force me to kick your ass, I will.” Then she held out her hand and Bela ignored it, standing back up on her own.

She took her time dusting herself down, aware of Daria’s impatience but uncaring. The silence was tense, Bela still annoyed - with both herself and Daria - and a little humiliated. Being reminded of him was never a positive experience but Daria’s words had affected her. It was a guilt that she thought she had outgrown.

“I need to track down a client. You can follow me and bitch to your heart's content but don't expect some big explanation on my part.” Without waiting for an answer, Bela turned on her heel and walked away.

For a minute, she thought that the woman had left and allowed herself a smile. The smile quickly turned into a grimace as Daria fell into step beside her. “Well, at least the weather is good.” She leaned in a little closer and Bela tensed. “We're being watched, laugh.”

Bela giggled obediently, an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. Whoever it was, they needed to be careful. “It's a busy place. Put your arm around me.”

Daria’s eyebrows raised before she hooked an arm over her shoulder. “See, you're warming up to me already.” They both noticed the flinch, Bela was sure. “Okay, we need to throw them off the scent. So we just need to find somewhere unrelated to lay low for the evening.”

Glad that her apartment was not going to be sacrificed, only one other location came to Bela’s mind. “Sure, I know a place.”

~~

The shady bar fitted Daria like a second skin. She teased, drank enough to be accepted but not too much that she lost her composure and won the billiards tournament. Bela was quieter, having seen Daria’s gun and felt slightly nervous about seeing Cassie again so soon.

“So. You seem to know something of my tragic love life, it’s only fair that you share some of yours.” Bela nursed her glass of whiskey, more curious than she cared to admit.

Daria smiled. “There's nothing to tell.”

Bela scoffed. “Yeah, and I only drink socially. Spill your secrets or I'll spill my drink.” She lifted it, mock-threateningly, and Daria laughed.

“It's true. I prefer my relationships to be platonic,” said Daria. When Bela looked incredulous, Daria hastened to continue. “I'm ace. Never saw why people make such a big deal about sticking their tongues down each other's throats.”

Surprised and unsure on how to respond, Bela returned to her drink. She could feel Daria’s amusement across the table and knew that she ought to let the subject drop and yet, her curiosity lingered. “So you've never..?”

“Made love? No. Been in love? Also no.” Daria smiled, something sheepish in the undertones. “I thought I might have been in love at one point. She looked like she wanted to kiss me and I thought, if it came down to it, I might be okay with that.” She shrugged. “But it didn't. So here I am. Satisfied?”

Bela shrugged back, unable to procrastinate her response any longer. “Yeah, I guess.” When she looked up to meet Daria’s eye, Bela noticed a mark on the woman’s neck and felt a drop of guilt roll down her spine. “About earlier. I didn't mean to cause an injury.” Apologies were difficult to navigate.

“I've had worse.” Bela did not doubt it and Daria continued. “But you might want to talk to someone about your rage. Not everyone is as durable as I am.”

Certain that she had heard something flirtatious in Daria’s words, Bela shifted in her seat. “Yeah, so I've been told-”

Bang, and Bela was forced to the ground. Screaming and ringing in her ears with her eyes tightly shut and hands pressed against her ears. Someone shook her arm and there was a clatter, smash of broken glass. The shaking became more urgent and Bela felt something crumble inside of her.

When Bela opened her eyes, Cassie was in front of her, supporting Daria and ducking behind a fallen table. MOVE! The ringing was too loud to hear anything else but the word is easy to read from Cassie’s lips. Bela did not question it, stumbling after Cassie as the three of them ran for the back room.

Bela rolled into the open cellar, Daria pressed up against her. Cassie remained above, muscles straining to close the trapdoor behind them. Something had fallen, potentially debris from the floor above, and the door remained stationary.

Before Bela could step up and help, there was a roar and flames flooded the upper level, Cassie’s body protecting them from the majority of the blast. Bela screamed but she could not hear it. Daria wrapped an arm around her, pulling her in close and Bela could feel angry tears forming in her eyes. Whoever it was that had been keeping tabs on them, they had a temper and the resources to back it up.

Bela wanted to see them burn.

Bela needed to see them burn.

But, miraculously, Cassie was unscathed. Pissed off, evidently, and covered in dust but unharmed. Daria said something to her - the sounds blurred but Bela presumed she was asking how - and Cassie replied, her smile gentle. The white noise was fading and Bela stood, shakily, and wiped the dirt from Cassie’s cheek.

“What did you say?” Bela’s throat was dry, hand remaining on Cassie as if breaking contact might make them lose each other. The bar was in ruins and she could hear the emergency services closing in. But the bar’s customers would need attention more than they did and if the attackers thought them dead, all the better.

Cassie’s eyes met Bela’s and something rippled under her skin, heart still pounding. “Unbreakable skin.”

~~

Finally returning to her apartment, Bela sought out any records of the exchanges she had had with her client - resorting to a few mere minutes of encrypted audiofile and a blurred still that may or may not have been downloaded from a security camera. The scavenging had been bleak and the night had dragged on, low-quality radio only playing loud enough to provide a beat rather than any distinguishable lyrics. Yet another disadvantage of living a little bit too close to vexing - bordering on belligerent - neighbours.

Quietly, about ten minutes after their arrival, Bela had handed Daria a SD card with the instruction to return it to Charlie as soon as possible. It was at least five years old - dates were still a bit of a challenge for Bela given how bits of her life had been wiped and she wished she could do the same for others - and it deserved to be with its owner. Daria had reached for her shoulder, offering neither comfort nor judgement. It was enough.

Cassie sat at her laptop, third coffee in hand as she tried to clarify the image enough to search for a match. From where Bela was standing, it seemed as if her- her friend was working by individual pixel and it was a task that Bela had given up on at least an hour and a half ago. Yet Cassie persevered, concentration soothing her features save for a slight furrow between her eyebrows.

Not that Bela was staring, merely being observant. Ensuring that no houseguest - suddenly she had not one but two guests, it was ridiculous - was going to turn around and murder her as she browsed the internet to find a piece of software that could trace a withheld number. Daria lurked in the corner, three ‘typical’ phones precariously balancing on the armrest. It had been concluded that Bela’s client had used one and, if they could mimic the application used to mask the number, she had assured them that it would only be a matter of tracing the source and finding the loopholes.

Narrowing down the app between the app store, Google Play and off-market programmes, however, was proving to be difficult and Daria seemed to only be half-invested. Sleep was starting to pry at Bela’s eyelids and she reached over to steal the coffee cup from Cassie’s hand. The accompanying protest was more of a whine than a complaint but Bela let her keep it. “I’m thinking of turning in for the night - this asshole clearly doesn’t want to be found.”

Daria looked up. “Then why bother? He paid you a deposit and then he covered his tracks.” She stopped talking, returning to her phones.

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” agreed Cassie. She clicked her knuckles, pushing her seat away from the desk. “So, let’s go over it-” Bela groaned -“again. It was a normal-looking building, filled with trained douchebags with guns. You only really saw one bad guy’s face and that guy stabbed the other guy - Frank, according to…” Cassie jerked a thumb in Daria’s direction before continuing. “And they wanted him to research something or they’d kill his wife and daughter.”

“Like I said,” piped up Daria. “They were already dead - dead since he went missing. Poor bastard was screwed either way- well shit.” Both sets of eyes were on Daria, whose lip was curling. “Wow.”

“What?” said Cassie, tired.

“I should’ve known,” Daria laughed, pushing her hair away from her face. Then she stood up. “This is hilarious. I’m gonna call a cab, bring your stuff and your least intrusive camera.” Side-stepping Bela, Daria walked out into the hallway and Bela rolled her eyes.

Bela picked up her remaining camera, scowling in the direction of the door. “You don’t have to come, Cassie. Could be dangerous.”

“Why, you wanting to spend time alone with her?” She did not pause long enough for Bela to deny it, shutting her laptop lid with a snap. “Nah, I’ve got enough caffeine in my system to stay up all night. And besides, you two might need another shield.” Her smile did not quite meet her eyes and she turned her back on Bela to leave. “You really need to get your door fixed.”

~~

Daria, as much as they attempted to persuade her, did not reveal the name of the client. “He’s my boss. Really into his secrets and fairly paranoid, the less you know, the better.” Bela had been tempted to reinstate some sort of fight - surely Cassie wanted to know the man’s identity, too - but had let the matter drop when they arrived at the house.

It was, for all intents and purposes, an ordinary house. Picket fence, mown lawn, set of bins by the pavement - nothing at all remarkable. Daria picked up a pebble and threw it into the front garden. It bounced twice on the pavement before lying still. The three women stood in silence for a moment. “So, who’s going first?”

Bela shrugged, jumping the fence and approaching the front door. She tried the handle - locked - before breaking it off its hinges. “He can take it out of your salary,” she told an amused Daria, before walking inside. “Presuming it’s the right place.”

There was nothing suspicious about the house. Nothing had electrocuted them so far and, if anything did, there were three of them. It was reassuring to be working in a team of people who could, presumably, take care of themselves.

“Bela…” Cassie’s voice was hesitant, almost sounding afraid, and Bela set down the photoframe she had been inspecting. “I think you two need to see this.”

Neither Bela nor Daria were prepared for what they saw when they stepped into the kitchen. The decor was nearly immaculate - as if the entire room had been stolen from a catalogue or a showroom - and there were no signs of food or fridge magnets or stains. No unwanted scent of yesterday’s dinner.

But there was a broken window. There was an overturned chair. There was a body. A man - the same man from the photo, Bela’s client - lay, motionless, on the floor. He looked pale, face unshaven and clothes crumpled. But there was something peaceful in his features, eyes closed. 

The feature that had captured their attention, however, was none of these things. For the man (“this has to be a joke,” whispered Daria, and Bela did not have to look over to know that she was shaken) seemed to be resting on top of black shadows. Two of them, in fact, burned into the floor.

From where Bela was standing, they looked like wings.

~~

Everything was transferred into boxes. They raked the entire house from top to bottom; clawing into the walls, emptying every drawer, going through every pocket. For Daria, it seemed to be therapeutic. Bela simply wanted her money and Cassie seemed to be dozing, having gone into the kitchen to find wine and not resurfaced since.

“As fun as this has been, I need to take off.” Daria spoke abruptly, clutching a single file to her chest. Her voice did not tremble. Bela suspected that the file had personal information on it and did not ask. “Avengers stuff, they’re falling apart without me.” She sealed some sort of plaster over her neck, successfully covering up at least half of her injury. “Try not to get yourself killed, Talbot.”

“You too,” Bela said, almost smiling. The woman was, undoubtedly, about to spend time with Charlie and there was a little jealousy in Bela at that thought, despite the supposed lack of romance in Daria’s life. Charlie was a person that Bela could never interact with again and she missed her.

Daria raised her hand at Cassie before shutting the door. She had scarcely been out of the room two minutes before Cassie caught Bela’s eye. “So you and her?” One eyebrow raised and it made Bela smile.

“She’s friends with someone I used to know,” she said, opening another of the files and skimming through it. “You might want to take a look at this.”

The official nature of the header had been what had initially caught Bela’s attention but the contents of the document were equally unsettling. “Accords?” Cassie read aloud, confused. “What, like some massive list of everyone who isn’t quite human?”

“There’s a whole paragraph about the need for greater accountability. Using references from them in New York and all kinds of crap-” She handed the paper to Cassie, disgusted. “I think they’re forgetting about the aliens. These people haven’t got a clue and if this guy really wanted to instate these ideas then I’m glad the idea died with him.”

Cassie finished reading, shaking her head. “Have you got everything you want to keep?” she said and Bela nodded. “I think we should burn it down.”

Bela’s head turned sharply. “Excuse me?”

“Think about it,” said Cassie, expression unchanged. “This place has our DNA all over it and none of the information that people will be looking for. If we don’t get rid of the evidence of us being here, it might not just be my bar that goes up in flames.”

A pause. “And no scientific assholes will be around to poke at a dead body.” Perhaps the man was practically a stranger but Bela had taken any money she could find and she felt that she owed him some peace. Even if he had almost gotten her killed. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

~~

Bela sealed the files after stealing a glass of water from Cassie and set off, promising to return. There was some kissing but no conversation relating to it, neither party wanting to rush. Presuming any future attacks could be anticipated, they would have enough time for that later.

Harvelle Industries was easy to find, the building jutting out into the sky with the obnoxious sign of overcompensation glowing like a beacon. Smart jacket pulled across her chest, Bela blended in with a group of young adults - interns, potentially - and pulled out her phone to discourage conversation. They talked animatedly amongst themselves as one flashed a badge to let them in, chatter filled with an engineering lexis that Bela did not pretend to try and understand.

Nerds, evidently, but Bela was hardly going to complain. She sidled off from the group, hoping to spot someone important, or even Joanna herself, and realising that the best way of doing that would be reaching the upper floors. Not that she had clearance or a set of blueprints or even an appointment - but improvising did made her heart race.

She bumped into a thin-looking man - who blushed profusely - and murmured her apologies, slipping his identity card up her sleeve as she did so. Fitzgerald, top clearance. Not that she looked anything like him but the card ought to be enough to get up there.

Five minutes later and Bela was almost disappointed at the lack of security. She stood, alone, in an elevator that was taking her directly to the top floor. Avengers territory, in fact, although she had no idea who Garth Fitzgerald was. Probably one of Harvelle’s rent boys.

Not that Bela was one to judge. That industry had been good to her when it mattered and the people had better manners than many she had encountered-

The lift froze, bathing Bela in red light and a soothing, mechanical voice was telling her to remain where she was. Security was on the way. Bela sighed before prising the doors open. One of her nails chipped as she maneuvered her way out onto the nearest floor, resigning herself to finding stairs.

But Harvelle, apparently, had sent someone more formidable than an armoured guard. Waiting, legs crossed, was a wide-eyed, disgruntled looking woman who seemed, to Bela, to have an air of mild disgust.

“Garth’s not a big fan of people stealing his things. I’m just glad you didn’t make him angry,” the woman told her idly, nose wrinkling. “You could have called first. I mean, Jo isn’t one to answer the company phones but at least we could have saved you the trouble of breaking in.”

Bela, to her credit, held the woman’s gaze. “I’m just the glorified delivery girl. But if Harvelle would rather that I kept my info to myself, I’ll show myself out.” If the woman was too uppity to accept the help, Bela had better things to be doing. But she could tell that she had peaked the woman’s interest as her expression had softened marginally and triumph tickled Bela’s own features into something more agreeable.

“SHIELD isn’t recruiting, as far as I’m aware, so I suppose I can take it off your hands for now. As long as it isn’t relating to one of our rival companies, I wouldn’t want to be accused of insider trading-”

“It’s about the Avengers.” Bela’s thoughts had returned to Cassie. Flowery words were dull and time-consuming, there was no need to waste any of their time. “The government wants to poke their noses in. Just give the files to Harvelle and tell her not to fuck up the relations for the rest of us.”

The woman was, thankfully, unperturbed. Almost, if Bela could go so far as to think it, as if she were unsurprised. “The rest of us?” she questioned, accepting the box of files from Bela and visibly struggling with the weight. Bela shrugged and turned her back on the woman.

“Don’t ask me, I was never here.”

As Bela was leaving, she thought she might have heard the woman laugh. Might have heard some sort of verbal command to clear a trace from the records. But, equally, it might have been wishful thinking. Bela’s thoughts reflected briefly on the woman, noting her red hair and calm composure, before hailing a cab. Sitting in the back, the door locked behind her and Bela looked up, irritated.

“If you’re looking for an easy kidnap victim, you’ve really got the wrong person.” The edge of her lip curled and her left fist clenched. Breaking the door would be easy. Breaking the criminal’s leg, however, would be a public service.

The driver - who had a well-rounded face, thinning hair and a rough beard - caught her eye in the mirror. “Hold on a minute, Miss Talbot, I assure you that is not my intention.” He raised both hands away from the wheel and she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, for now. “Thank you. I only came to bring news of an old friend of yours.”

Bela rolled her eyes. “Cut the bullshit. I don’t have any friends.” At least, not any old ones.

The man chuckled, shrugging in his black blazer. “Alastair sends his regards. From the land of the living.”

~~~~  
CASTIEL

The first warning that Heaven received was a shrill screech from the North. A sound like manicured nails scraping through gypsum, like grace being carved out of vessels – noise that could drive Death himself insane. It resonated through the scenery, waves rebounding from the lakes, diffracting through every gap but, somehow, growing louder.

Glass shattered. Wine spilled. A mania nestled its way into the inhabitants’ brains and the resulting actions were nothing but a blur. The angel caught a blade that Hael tried to plunge through his back, turned it in his hand and pierced her skull. Her figure crumpled, erupting in white light, but the white noise only intensified.

The angel needed to get the noise out of his head. He tried to throw himself against the wall but Bartholomew was already there. He took one look at the angel before launching himself at him, fists clenched. The first blow smacked the angel in the jaw but the angel caught the second one, tightening his grip until he felt bone crunch beneath his fingers.

Bartholomew lashed out at him but the angel was quicker, bringing the blade up through his throat.

Not enough, the noise was still ringing. He lifted his hand to summon Mjolnir and then crushed the skulls of any vessels that dared to block his path. The angel fought, his skin tinged scarlet with the angelic blood he spilled. Daniel. Efram. Jonah. Countless others as he rampaged, anything and anyone to tear the noise out of him but it was only getting louder. Higher in pitch, more shrill, burrowing into his brain like a parasite. There was no end in sight.

Then someone stirred. The angel had his hand around Balthazar’s neck and, tentatively, a few of the angel’s memories began to return. Balthazar – his friend, his ally. Balthazar, now quivering, eyes wide and desperation etched into his every pore. “CASTIEL!”

Castiel, that was the angel’s name. His name. Whilst he did not release Balthazar, Castiel did not crush his throat. An angel flew – was thrown – over their heads and Castiel turned, pulling Balthazar with him into a hidden corridor.

One angel, already situated in the corridor, ran towards them and Castiel threw the blade with his free hand, striking their attacker through the chest. “Cassie. Castiel. You’ve got to snap out of this! This isn’t you!”

Balthazar’s hand pressed against Castiel’s chest over his heart and Castiel’s eyes narrowed, breathing heavy as the noise threatened to drown out Balthazar again. But the sounds that Balthazar was making now contrasted so strongly with his typical, dulcet tones that Castiel could sense that, whatever was troubling him, it was important. “Everyone has gone mad- some sort of psychosis.”

But the noise was threatening to take hold of Castiel’s senses again and he released Balthazar, stepping back and pressing himself against the wall. “What do I do?”

There was a flicker of uncertainty in Balthazar’s eyes before he met Castiel’s gaze and reached for his hand. “Go to Earth. The human you saved – the one with the shield – his organisation developed this weapon.”

Saving people, the concept sounded both foreign and ruefully familiar to Castiel. “I did not save him,” he responded hastily, letting the words flow from his lips. Talking, in the common tongue at least, was non-destructive. Clarifying facts, it was the polar opposite of the madness that threatened to overwhelm him. “The humans were the ones who brought him up from the depths. I merely…” He pulled away from Balthazar’s grip, running a hand through his hair.

Something snapped, Castiel’s body convulsed and, suddenly, he was on the floor. The sound had amplified, Mjolnir falling to the floor with a crash, and Balthazar reached for his shoulder. “Castiel. Stay with me.” Castiel shook, ignoring the urge to blast Balthazar backwards. “Okay. This isn’t working.”

Castiel felt Balthazar grab his hand and then followed him as he strode down the corridor. “Plan B, then, I’m relying on you, Cassie.” Castiel stared at him blankly, brain scrambling to make the connections, to see what Balthazar was trying to show him. “As soon as I stop talking, you’re going to lock me in this cupboard, understand? I’m going to sound a lot less rational but – well, you’ve seen me drunk before, it shouldn’t be too difficult to accept it as reality.”

Balthazar’s confidence wavered and he sighed before drawing his own blade. Instinctively, Castiel stepped back, glad to have Mjolnir by his side once again. But Balthazar did not advance on Castiel, instead slicing through his own palm. Grace and blood seeped out and Balthazar winced as he peeled open the cut. “Bear with me, this is a tad uncomfortable.”

Castiel could only stare in disbelief as Balthazar picked a sapphire, no bigger than a nickel, out of his skin. “Tear of Zadkiel, unbelievably rare. Please don’t lose it.” Then Balthazar handed the jewel to Castiel, looked up to meet his eyes and did not relinquish his grip.

As soon as Castiel’s skin came into contact with the sapphire, any remnants of the noise stopped entirely. Castiel could hear the - oddly muted - sound of battles raging around them and he felt a deep sorrow. This angel-on-angel violence was nothing more than an infection, something had wormed its way into their minds and clawed at them until nothing but their base function – warriors – remained.

The only order being to kill.

“Castiel.” Balthazar’s voice brought him back. “I need you to lock me inside this cupboard. No matter what you hear, you must not let me out.” Balthazar allowed himself a weak smile. “Try to make sure no one else can get in, if you can. Then maybe we can both survive this.”

“Wait, I need more instruction-” Castiel hesitated but Balthazar had already let go. Immediately, there was a change in him. His posture straightened, a glint in his eye that looked far from friendly. Then Balthazar lunged and Castiel dodged out of the way.

There would be no reasoning with him now. Castiel forced Balthazar through the door and locked it behind him, slicing his own hand to paint sigils into the mahogany. “Stay safe, friend,” Castiel murmured but he was only met with the door shaking – presumably, Balthazar had thrown his bodyweight against it.

Castiel embedded the jewel in his palm as the cut healed, silently wondering if Joanna would condone his copying of her design. Only, she had effective, laser-based weaponry and he had a hammer and glorified body jewellery - which was quickly being covered by his skin.

He turned Mjolnir around in his non-vandalised hand, frowning. Then he generated momentum by swinging the hammer and soared upwards, breaking through the roof and taking a breath of open air. Fresh air, a (reasonably) unaltered mind and spectacular views.

All around him, his home burned. But even in its festering state, Heaven was beautiful. Towers rose into the sky – which Castiel was sure to avoid as he had no intention of fending off more attackers – rivers slicing through the earth and flowers sprinkled as if their Father had simply thrown them from above, scattered like human farmers planting crops. Even as the towers crumbled, the rivers glowed scarlet and the foliage lost its greenery; Heaven was still picturesque.

At the best of times, the Bifrost was difficult. When Gabriel, the messenger, had governed it, at least it had been reliable. Now, it was temperamental. It was similar to throwing a dart as a spinning globe and arriving wherever said dart hit – when chasing Metatron before the battle in New York, Castiel had first landed in the Baltic Sea.

That mission had been his first encounter with the Avengers: Joanna Harvelle, with her glowing charm and suit of metal; Garth, a man of science whose form changed into a formidable creature when rage consumed him; Charlie Bradbury, whose aim with a bow surpassed all that Castiel had met throughout his existence; Daria, a woman enshrouded in pain with a calm demeanour which gave off the impression of someone who discussed far less than she knew and Dean Winchester, who had left more of an impression on Castiel than he ought to have done.

There was also Meg Foster, an agent and a woman of science, whom Castiel owed a favour. But that had been a different day, down to a terrible idea of Michael’s that had nearly instilled Metatron as their ruler. Apparently, taking an interest in human beliefs was frowned upon by those who never ventured to Earth. Apparently, designing a tool to aid one’s disguise amongst humans was arrogant and a clear attempt to usurp Michael. Apparently… Those wounds had not quite healed yet.

Castiel had no intention of ruling Heaven - Michael could do whatever he pleased with it. As long as he did not reduce it to ash and rubble, Castiel was indifferent.

The title Loki had been passed between many wandering angels who sought to cause trouble. Gabriel had used it once or twice, when he had been Castiel’s friend, as had Balthazar but the most famous was Lucifer, determined to claim his vengeance. The most recent was Metatron, power-hungry and scheming.

Thor, typically, was the mantle of whomever decided to take action against them. Michael was the one who had battled Lucifer and Raphael had, in his own words, dealt with Balthazar’s rebellious phase (Castiel knew for a fact that the majority of those weapons remained on Earth) and the task of preventing Metatron taking hold had been delegated to Castiel.

Meg Foster also knew him as Thor, as did her associates, but one had been an expert in the human mythology and Castiel had been intrigued, determined to learn more. Obviously none of this would be news to Metatron, who had buried himself in both human and heavenly literature, but it had been fascinating to Castiel. In his mind, he began to refer to Heaven as Asgard. Answering to Thor amongst his human friends became second-nature.

Now, he had to rely on those he had lied to – just as Balthazar had relied on him. Castiel glanced down at his hand, healed, and wiped the residue blood on his cloak. Bifrost. That was his next goal. When he set foot on earth, he would ask for aid from Dean and his organisation – they had been perfectly amicable, eventually, in the hunt for Metatron (or Loki), and Castiel had no reason to mistrust them.

Presuming he could reach them, that was. His free hand hovered over the lever, staring out the glittering road. His vessel, having already visited Earth, was fully prepared for the air and its potency and his destination was a matter of concentration. So he closed his eyes and pictured the tower of the woman of iron, with its earthly, glowing devices and smiling residents. Joanna, Charlie and Dasha, Hulk and Dean.

Castiel pulled the lever and two things seemed to happen at once. The first was something narrow and dense hitting the back of his head, the second was the bright light of the Bifrost as it engulfed him. If his demeanour had not been affected by the travelling alone, the reverberating pain was more than enough to disorientate him.

Stumbling, he found himself underground. The edges of his vision – walls, Castiel supposed – were spinning and he blinked. The harsh light of the Bifrost had dissipated but there was another glow. A heavenly glow, not of earthly origins. It took a few moments for Castiel to realise that it must have been his attacker.

The attacker must, by extension, have been affected by the madness that was choking Heaven. They could not be permitted to leave. But the glow was gone and the vessel’s heart began to beat faster. “Who’s there?” came a rough voice from above. A voice that Castiel recognised immediately.

“Stop!” he growled, making for the nearest set of stairs. He nearly tripped over his own two feet, leaping up the steps and smashing Mjolnir through the trapdoor. Castiel emerged into some kind of kitchen, thrown by the painted tiles and the lack of beings.

Until Castiel’s face turned sour, his eyes falling upon the man in front of him with pained disbelief. “No.” But there was no reasoning with the madness, not with an unknown angel. “Director Singer, I am so sorry.”

But it was not Robert Steven Singer who had control. In fact, save for his body, there was nothing left of the man that Castiel respected. Truthfully, the angel that wore him like a cloak was not in control either but Castiel could not afford to give in to the sympathy.

The grace sounded like Uriel but Castiel was uncertain – there was not enough time to draw a proper conclusion. One moment they were both standing. The next, Castiel was standing over Bobby’s broken body, his own wings visible and quivering. “Mr Singer?” he asked, guilt and resignation in his tone.

There was no response but, in all truthfulness, Castiel had not expected to hear one. If he had killed the angel - he had - then the vessel’s chances of surviving were slim to none. But probability had been driven out by the single shred of hope that the man lived. Bobby was strong.

But angels were stronger. So Castiel knelt to close the man’s eyes, turned Mjolnir over in his hand and flew away.

~~

Harvelle workers were all he could find at Avengers Tower and Castiel, frustrated as he was, had little patience with them. Dean Winchester could be anywhere - but Meg Foster had stated that her home was always open to him.

Over a year ago. When he had promised to visit. Bringing presents from Asgard. This was why he had tried to go to Joanna first, she would be happy to see him without asking for things or making bizarre comments that he could only half-understand (the human conception of science was mind-boggling, inventing words to explain magic and paying with digital numbers and bits of paper in order to learn how to do so) and Joanna’s suit was a metallic miracle.

But it was not Joanna that he was going to see. He landed in, what he had thought was, the living room of Meg’s home to find it empty. But there was a slight buzzing, not unlike that of bees. Perplexed, Castiel put his hand up against the sloping rafting. The tree that it had been taken from had been dead for a long time. He took another few steps forward, uncertain as to why it was quite so dark.

It was at that point that his foot sank through something soft and the floorboards opened up and swallowed him. He landed, sprawled, in the centre of a far more familiar room with Mjolnir beside him, accompanied by a scream. It was Meg. Standing up, he brushed the dust off of him and turned to the source of the buzzing. Television, of course. “I believe Garth enjoys this series,” he commented airily. “He always laughs when they put on the sunglasses.”

“Thor,” she uttered, standing up and jabbing his chest with the remote. “You cannot. Can. Not. Just break through my roof. With no warning.” She swatted his head with the remote when he made no attempt to answer, glaring at him. “I could have been busy! I could have been with someone! There’s this Earth custom, it’s called knocking, I think you should try it sometime.”

He opened his mouth to speak but she waved the remote at him again as some sort of threat and he shut it. “You know what? Go outside and prove you know what knocking is. Go outside and do it. Then you’ll fix my roof and I’ll help with whatever you’ve come for- yes, I know you want something. Go.”

Castiel shrugged, teleporting out to the front porch and rapping his knuckles thrice on the door. Meg was irritable, he had learned that the hard way, and prickly but she had a good heart. An understanding one. If she had promised her help, Castiel knew that he could count on her.

She swung the door open, a smug smile on her face. “Well, hey there roof repairman. You’re just in time.”

Castiel smiled back, shaking his head. “It is good to see you, too, Meg.” She tapped his shoulder playfully, stepping back to let him through. “I would be happy to fix the damage I caused. I hope that my knocking was satisfactory?”

Meg raised her eyebrows. “I mean, I prefer it a little harder but I know that’s not for everyone.” There was a short pause, Meg’s lip twitching, before she shook her head. “You’re adorable.”

Castiel smiled at the compliment, approaching the gap in the ceiling. He lifted his hand to the plaster and closed his eyes, whispers of grace sinking into the atoms. The dust left his coat, chalky debris returning to the ceiling as it repaired itself. The process was done in just under a minute.

“Satisfied?” he asked, tentatively removing his hand. There was a migraine building behind his eyes but Castiel focused on Meg. Adjusting to Earth always took a little time.

“Just about.” She perched on the edge of the sofa, muting the television. “Horatio is a funny guy, Thor, you should have a listen sometime. Now, what do you want?”

Castiel swallowed his pride. “I need help. Something has attacked my home, some sort of psychological weapon. It has turned the people against each other and I believe it to be of Earth origins. I don't-”

She had stepped forward, squaring up to him despite her height, and pressed a finger to his lips. “For the record, I'm an astrophysicist. If you wanted weapons advice, you should have gone to a specialist.” When she seemed sure that he was not going to speak, she removed her finger.

“Okay. Think. People against each other, some sort of pro-killing psychological thing. It's got to be chemical because brainwashing on that kind of scale- Asgard is pretty big, isn't it?” Castiel nodded. “So. Chemical murder drug. Drug that puts id in control, that removes inhibitions - that's only about half the illegal drugs on Earth nowadays.. Nowadays.”

Realisation lit up her features and she grinned up at him. “I knew it sounded familiar. So now we know what it is-”

“I don’t,” said Castiel, glancing at Mjolnir as if it might empathise with him.

“Shh. And Ruby said looking into the old files would be a waste of time! Come into the office with me and Bobby will probably let us browse the files.” Castiel’s jaw clenched. “I mean, 1946 is a long way back but SHIELD is a bit obsessive with filing - I think they called it the SSR back then, but I digress.. Are you okay?”

She had reached out for him and Castiel jerked backwards. Visiting SHIELD currently was not an option. “No. Give me the name of this weapon and I shall carry out the rest of my investigation alone. You have helped enough and I do not want to inconvenience you further.”

Her arms folded, irritated but convinced. “Fine. I'm going to hazard a guess at Midnight Oil. It was never officially produced but Harvelle Industries - and that's Ellen, not Jo - is behind its development.”

The information took a moment to process before Castiel straightened, picking up Mjolnir. “Thank you. I really do appreciate your aid.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she laughed. “Come see me sometime, okay? I'll make burgers and you can tell me all of Captain America’s secrets.”

For a moment, he looked mildly puzzled before disregarding it as Meg being Meg. He bent to kiss her forehead before picking a date in 1946 and disappearing.

~~

Luck, for once, seemed to be on his side. Not only did he land upright but Castiel found himself in front of some sort of circular coat of arms. Strategic Scientific Reserve. He took a step backwards, nearly tripping over again.

“Careful there, brother,” said a voice and Castiel turned, hastily hiding Mjolnir behind his leg. “You lot travel fast. I presume you're one of Harvelle’s folk?”

Then there was silence as they both stared at each other. The man cleared his throat as Castiel scrambled for words, noting the man's crutch. A battle-hardened veteran. By Earth standards. “Yes,” Castiel said eventually. Choose a name, any name. “Winchester.” Except that one. “Adam,” he added quickly. “That is my name. Captain America is- was my- half-brother.”

“You don’t sound too sure about that,” he chuckled. “Don’t be shy. If you've got enough evidence to convince the ladies up front to let you up here, I'm hardly going to kick you out.” He extended a warm, crutch-free hand and Castiel shook it. “I'm Benny. Lisa- Agent Braeden is downstairs hailing a cab to head over to Harvelle’s place and there's enough space for another person.”

Benny Lafitte. Castiel forced a smile as he pulled his hand back. “That would be most helpful, thank you.”

~~

In the back of the car, Castiel was certain that Lisa had not believed him. He could practically hear her thoughts whirring as she tried to figure out a reasonable explanation and he made no attempt to help her, stepping out of the cab as soon as it stopped, Mjolnir tucked under the seat. There was only so much of Benny’s friendly, if strained, small talk that he could deal with.

Thankfully, Ellen Harvelle seemed to possess the same gift for obliterating awkwardness as her daughter. “Lisa! Ben!” She ran up to them, kissing both on their respective cheeks. “And you brought a friend! Hello, Mister Tall-Dark-and-Handsome!”

Castiel flushed, determinedly avoiding both Lisa and Benny’s gaze. “Adam claimed that he was a friend of yours, Ellen,” said Lisa, a note of warning in her tone. Castiel tensed, preparing for the worst.

“Well of course he is,” giggled Ellen, slipping her arm through his. “He's just a little shy, bless him. So, y’all gonna stand out here all day yacking or are we gonna catch the bastards who stole my weapons?”

Making the mistake of looking up, Castiel caught Lisa’s eye and nearly flinched. So this was Dean’s widow; she certainly looked formidable. But Ellen had taken the silence as an agreement and was already steering him towards the house.

Well, house was a slight understatement. It was a mansion, by human scale, and Castiel could almost taste the wealth in the air. “Caleb? Could you please show our guests to the library? Tea for Miss Braeden, coffee for Benny and I.”

A well-dressed man stepped out, a pale apron tied around his waist. “Ah, Miss Braeden, Mr Lafitte. Shall we?” Lisa’s rosy lips thinned, making eye contact with Ellen. Then she let out a faint sigh and followed the chattering man down the hall, Benny at their heels.

As soon as they turned a corner, Ellen pushed Castiel up against a wall. “All right, terrible liar. Just what is it that made you want to see me so bad, huh?” There was unveiled threat in her voice and he swallowed, trying to stand his ground.

“Still a little shocked?” She trailed her fingers up his down and Castiel shivered. “You haven't seen anything yet.” Her hand trailed lower, one eyebrow raised, but it was only when her hand reached the edge of his trousers that he understood what she was doing.

That decided it. Lying amongst humans only lead to bad things. Castiel removed her hands. “I think you may have the wrong idea-”

“Oh, no,” she said with a hollow laugh. “Honey, I'm just turning the tables a little bit. You expected some poor little rich girl who you could have a quickie with and then conduct whatever spy business you're after. I'm just making sure you know where you stand. I might have been called a lot of things but submissive ain't one of them.”

Castiel’s eyes widened but before he could protest, she carried on talking. “What I really want to know is how you got into the SSR. You tell me that and I might even..” She licked her lips and Castiel felt a touch of panic.

“I'm from the future!” he blurted out, sliding along the wall. “I am from the future and I am acquainted with your daughter. That is how I am here.”

Ellen stepped back, staring at him unflinchingly. “Prove it.”

His countenance turned grumpy, looking back at her with an air of impatience. “Moon landing, 1969. The next president will be named Eisenhower. Al Capone will die in January, next year. Lisa’s work will take her to Los Angeles after Lilith is taken into custody-”

“All right! All right, already. Did I send you?”

“I'm afraid that you're-”

“Dead. Okay.” She straightened her skirt, teeth grinding. “Okay. Tell me how you got here and I'll tell you what you need to know.”

Lying had gotten him into this mess in the first place; Castiel refused to make that mistake again. “Not through scientific methods. On Earth, I have found that the fourth dimension can be more fluid. My grace enables me to travel through it.” Ellen appeared to be on the verge of asking another question so he hurried on. “I know about Midnight Oil. I've come to ask you how to stop it.”

Her smile flickered and then faded entirely. Then she turned away from him, hands on her hips. “It can't be stopped.” Castiel's breath caught in his throat and she turned away. “I've only seen its work twice - I thought I destroyed all traces of it and its designs.”

Castiel grabbed her shoulders. “How can I stop it?”

She shook her head. “You contain all those who have breathed it in. Then you wait for them to finish each other off.

Mjolnir flew to his hand and Castiel left before any attempts at an apology could crush him further. Ellen could fix a car easily enough. But she could not fix his kin.

~~

Disorientated, despondent, and drained, Castiel found himself back in the twenty-first century. It was bleak. Here he was, on a roof, surrounded by other buildings which were not tall enough to be classed as skyscrapers but built in a similar manner. Definitely disorientated. Chronologically, it did not quite feel like the time he had left so visiting Meg or Harvelle Industries was out of the question. Not that he really wanted to talk to any of them, now that he was well on his way to becoming the last of his kind.

He wiped a tear from his eye angrily, staring up at the sky. “What do you want from me?” The words burned his tongue. “What more can I do, Father? There's no cure!”

Castiel’s head split open and he threw Mjolnir upwards with all his might, seized by the sensation of thousands of nails clawing down the inside of his skull. “There's nothing I can do. I've failed them all.” Balthazar, presuming that the door had held, was waiting for nothing. Had sacrificed himself for nothing.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of breaking glass. Castiel sniffed, blinking back any more tears that could fall. No weakness. Humans, he could save. But his heart would not really be invested in it.

Castiel raised his hand and summoned Mjolnir, feeling his hammer before it broke through Earth's atmosphere with a blinding beam of lightning. Now, to deal with the petty criminal.

For a moment, he fell, and then he entered the room. There was a familiar scent. Dean's room. No hesitation, he threw Mjolnir at the, surprisingly strong, intruder. The impact sent him through the wall, tumbling over the edge. Castiel refused to lose another person he cared about. Not tonight.

"NO!” Dean yelled, looking unsteady on his feet. He raced towards the drop and, for a sickening moment, Castiel thought Dean was about to jump off after him. For a moment, Castiel could only watch.

Better a faceless stranger than a beloved superhero; every kid for miles would agree with that. “You are welcome, Dean,” Castiel said, summoning Mjolnir back.

But Dean looked unwell, and not just from the fight. Weakness and fatigue had rendered him vulnerable and there was something wondrous in its rarity. Captain America was a human. A remarkable, broken human. “What the hell’s going on, Thor?” Castiel could not tell him. Not now. Yet he had to say something.

“Singer is dead and your offender was after a relic from Asgard.” Castiel closed his eyes, trying to keep track of the lies. The next time he set foot in Asgard, it would be filled with his siblings’ corpses. “One of my brothers was simply enjoying his youth. We had no idea that it had fallen to Midgard until the report of disturbances returned.” In his head, Castiel pictured Samandriel. Bright-eyed, smiling cheerfully - throat ripped out, body slumped against a wall as he sat, motionless, in a pool of his own blood.

Castiel forced a smile. Anything to push back the nausea. “It is good to see you again, my friend.” One of his friends, at least, was still alive. He had to be grateful for that. Castiel placed his palm on him and let out an inaudible sigh. At least the migraine was gone now.

“And you, Thor. Just wish it was under better circumstances.” Castiel could sense Dean’s distress but said nothing. He did not believe himself to be in the right frame of mind for offering comfort. “What happened to Singer?”

Castiel watched him closely. Suitable lie, suitable lie - but the man's death was on Castiel. Bobby's blood was on Castiel’s hands. “The same thing that would have happened to you, as far as I am aware. The details escape me.” Castiel would not recall them. Not now. Not to Dean.

Then he was greeted by Dean’s back as the man headed towards the bed. Castiel arched an eyebrow, aware of his vessel’s heart beating just a little bit faster. “So.” Castiel felt himself begin to sweat, a warm sensation rising under his skin. “What’s in here?” Castiel stared at Dean, face flushed. This was not natural, something had gone wrong. “Thor?” Dean’s fingers brushed against some sort of lock and, in a split-second, Castiel understood. There was something angelic in that box, something that was messing with his head. His feelings. Castiel pushed Dean's hands away, fearful of the source inside.

“Do not, under any circumstances, open that box.” Slowly, Castiel drew his hands back. None of this made any sense. It was as if there was some sort of angelic amplifier, taking everything mildly positive - repressed or not - and warping it.

“If it’s so dangerous in my hands, maybe you should take-?”

“No!” yelled Castiel, realising he needed to put distance between them before he did something foolish. “No.” Another step back. “This is something else - something remarkable, I admit - but it must not be in close proximity to Asgardian blood.” Dean- the object was too intoxicating. Castiel needed to leave.

Dean’s quiet exhalation did not help. Him hiding the box did. “Right, no gods and no touching. Gotcha.” Castiel did not know if he wanted to kiss him or kill him. “So what? Let it rot in storage for a couple millennia?”

He had run out of patience. “In the words of your pop culture: keep it secret, keep it safe.”

The moment he distanced himself from Dean, his headache returned. Castiel found himself in some sort of park and sat down on the nearest bench before he fell. Everything was hitting him too fast and, thanks to the added disadvantage of human empathy, Castiel was struggling.

Time travel was weakening. That was fact, especially when he was picking apart his own timeline without suitable time to rest. The actions had been done in desperation and Castiel could not afford to be anything less than fully functional. Desperate, thoughtless actions were a luxury he would not indulge in again.

Thoughts. The mysterious object affected him but not Dean. Its effects were largely positive: alleviating his headache, raising his temperature (Earth was a cold planet), and replacing his painful thoughts with more frivolous ones. There was a feeling of losing control that, albeit significantly less intense, almost resembled the Midnight Oil.

It needed to be controlled. Castiel could already feel himself missing its presence, as if it were a part of him. As if it were grace.

But each whisper of grace was unique, like a fingerprint, and Castiel had not recognised it. All he had gathered from it was…

Healing. Pleasure of God.

Anael was alive.

~

It took an hour to track down Charlie. As she had boasted in the past about her power over technology, Castiel had thought her to be the clear choice. She had mentioned her home block, as it were, when they were enjoying each other’s company after New York but as for the exact building, Castiel was uncertain. The buildings were tall, filled with apartments, and he did feel slightly guilty about the invasion of privacy.

At least the couple who had been really enjoying each other’s company had not seen him. That would have been awkward. But he recognised Charlie’s breathing patterns and tentatively opened the door. Fast asleep. He switched on the light in her bedroom with a click of his fingers. “Please don't be alarmed-”

“Thor!” The warning had not been heeded and Castiel had no idea where the bow had come from but she had it in hand, pointed directly at him. “What the frick! Do you know what time it is?” He opened his mouth to answer and she glared, kicking off her blanket. His mouth closed. “You really, really better have a good reason for being here.”

He lowered his hands, trying not to laugh - pink rabbit pajamas, he had a feeling that Joanna would find those hilarious - and slipped them into his pockets. “I need to hack.” Anael had, decades ago, spoken of her love of America. It did not narrow down his search enough to help but, with luck, there would be something he could pick up on.

Charlie sighed, pulling on a dressing gown, but Castiel saw her smile. Humans enjoyed their rest, it was true, but a good friend would give it up for a friend in need. “Well. At least you came to the right person. I’ll take it as a compliment - but next time, try and find me on my lunch break.”

“Normally you eat whilst working, Charlie, unless that has changed since I last visited Earth.”

She regarded him with amusement, a splash of colour hitting her cheeks. “Fine. What semi-illegal activity can I help you with on this ridiculously-early morning?”

~

The searches were quick but the lists of names were long. At first, Castiel sought the faces of babies born in the year that Anael had, supposedly, died but none quite fit. They had, seemingly, exhausted the variables and he could feel fatigue settling in on Charlie. So Castiel stood up, irritated, and noticed the first rays of sun creeping in through the window.

“This is hopeless,” he said through gritted teeth, drawing the curtains. “She could be almost any of these people. Yet she is not.” The problem with faking her own death and abandoning them all, Castiel supposed. But he had to believe that she was alive, that he had not been left alone out of all his kind.

He had a feeling that Charlie suspected something important being behind his nocturnal visit but, as of yet, she had not asked and, for that and many other things, Castiel was grateful. Handing him a warm mug of coffee, Charlie sipped from her own and stared at the screen. “Alright. So you’ve been through just about every aspect of humanity that she admired and you’ve been staring at the screen for a while which has been useless. So. Maybe she didn’t land straight away - what did you say her Asgardian name was? I can check the lore.”

That had been slightly awkward, telling her another lie. “Sif,” he murmured. It had been the first female name that had come to mind.

Charlie took a section of her hair and plaited it absently.“Sif. Maybe she kept the same two letters, we could try looking up some names like that.” She shrugged, seemingly trying to pull some out of the air. “Siena. Simone. Sisyphus- Thor?”

There. Angelic. “Her,” he said, finger prodding the screen. “Bring her up. Who is she?”

Charlie’s eyebrows furrowed, glancing at Castiel before bringing up the woman’s file. “Anna Milton- oh hey, look. Briefly committed as a child, about the same time that Sif fled Asgard- you probably don’t need me to read all of this out to you..”

The words all blended into one but Castiel knew that this was the one. She was Anael and Anael was her, he could sense it. “I need to find her.”

“What are you gonna do when you do?” asked Charlie, hesitation evident in her voice. Castiel did not appreciate the mistrust.

“I am going to take her home. Asgard has a far better use for her talents than Midgard and her family-” presuming any were left -“miss her dearly. Does that meet with your approval, Charlie?”

Pajamas, dressing gown and coffee aside, the woman looked uncomfortable. “If she doesn’t want to go home, Thor, isn’t it wrong to force her? She’s gotta make her own decisions.”

He could feel that same irritation burning in the pit of his stomach. There was no way to make her understand without explaining every single detail and he could not afford to waste the time. Besides, it would reveal the secret his people had kept for centuries and, truth be told, he did not need to indulge her curiosity at this present moment in time.

Gently, he took the coffee mug from her and set it down beside his own. Confusion settled into her features and he turned to walk away from her. As expected, she followed him and soon they were both standing in the bedroom again. “Thor?”

He stepped towards her and whispered an apology, two fingers pressing to her forehead. On touch, her eyes closed and she slumped backwards. Castiel lifted her onto the bed and tucked the blanket over her. “I’ll explain everything later.”

He washed up the mugs, setting them back in place. Once the computer was disabled, it would be as if he had never been there. A strangely specific dream.

Then he returned to the computer, quickly searching the internet for Anna Milton. Wealthy, naturally, and quite well-known; CEOs tended to be. But Castiel recognised the company and his eyes narrowed. Harvelle Industries. At least she would be easy to find.

~

This time, Castiel entered via the main entrance. Joanna was more likely to shoot than merely curse at him and he had gotten slightly fed up of the lukewarm greetings. CALEB recognised him and, having alerted Anael of his importance, granted him access to Joanna’s home.

Anna, herself, arrived promptly and poured him a whiskey. “Jo’s downstairs in the workshop. She’s asked me to stall whilst she finishes with her toys. Drink up.” Despite the fatigue, there was still affection in her voice that Castiel approved of. Perhaps he was not the only angel who had fallen for humanity.

But he did raise the glass to his lips, draining it quickly. “It was not Joanna I came to speak to, in truth. I was hoping we could make acquaintance.” Castiel waited for the flash of recognition in her eyes but all he caught was suspicion.

“Well, I know you. If that’s just a polite way of getting me to introduce myself, I’ll bite. I’m Anna and I do all the hard work around here-”

"Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart,” laughed Jo, raising a hand to greet Castiel and hooking an arm around Anna. “Hey, Thor. How’s life up in space?”

Castiel knew better than to try and force the nuances on her - Jo knew exactly what she was talking about. “In trouble, truthfully, but that’s why I came.”

“See. I told you that the Avengers was a waste of time, people can just bypass Singer and come to me directly.” The words were aimed at Anna but Castiel winced at Robert’s name being thrown out so casually. Too soon.

“Actually, your buddy here says he came to see me so you might as well hop back downstairs.” Jo’s eyebrows raised, looking from Castiel and back to Anna with mild surprise.

“Sure, I get it. You have other friends, that’s fine.” She let go of Anna, walking over to Castiel with a small smirk. “You try anything on my girlfriend, bud, and I’ll send you back to Asgard myself. ‘Kay?”

Castiel saw Anna’s eyes roll and chuckled. “I assure you, that was not my intent at all-”

“Good because I’m busy. I got a present for a little bird guy and it’s really close to being finished. Call me if you get food.” She kissed Anna’s cheek on the way out, seemingly unbothered by the pointless disruption.

Anna, however, was straight to business. “Right. You say your piece, go.” He cleared his throat, loosening his tie because, suddenly, it felt far too tight. There was no proper way of breaking the news and clearly the wall in her human mind had been thorough. Music blasted from downstairs and Anna sighed. “In the elevator. Come on.” He followed her, glad to postpone the revelation as long as possible.

The doors clicked shut behind them and Castiel stared at her. Unmistakably Anael and yet, a completely different being. “You are not who you think you are,” he said, eventually.

She arched an eyebrow, looking at him as if he had just told a particularly unsavoury joke. “All right then, demi-god, who am I?”

Castiel winced at being compared to his Father. It was inaccurate. “I’m not, exactly, a demi-god. I - you and I - we are angels. My name is Castiel and you are Anael. You, when you lived in Heaven, specialised in healing and we are in grave danger. If you don’t come back, we may all perish-”

“Hold up!” Silence. Castiel could tell that she was waiting for the punchline, disbelief making her look almost comical. “I’m human. You think if I was some superhero that I would just sit out when aliens attacked New York? Leave Jo to deal with that asshole trying to kill us on her own? I don’t have any powers.”

“I understand that it is a lot to take in-”

“I really don’t think you do!” She was laughing now. Then she pressed the button for the elevator to stop and stepped out into a seating area, leaning on the nearest sofa. “It’s hilarious. Really, did Jo put you up to it? Let’s pull a great joke on Anna so that she never gets to her very important conference in Vienna. Ha ha ha.”

Castiel stepped out after her, wringing his hands. There was no time for persuading her of the truth. “I am not telling you a joke.”

She rolled her eyes again, pushing her hair back behind her ear. “Wow. You really must be desperate Thor- Castiel, whatever. Why don’t you, if your home is really in trouble, actually focus on fixing it instead of messing around here with me?”

His jaw clenched. “That’s what I’m trying to do, Anael, so if you would just listen to me, maybe we could save our brothers and sisters.”

“You’re clearly not listening to me, either, so there’s that. I am not one of you, I am quite happy here and you can just find someone else to try and take back with you to wherever it is you came from. Meg Foster would jump at the opportunity-”

“Meg Foster is a human.” He grabbed her by the shoulders, trying to get the message to sink in. “You. Are not. Listen, Dean Winchester has your grace. If you take it, you will remember who you are and maybe we can save some people.”

Anna continued to glare, shaking off his grasp. “CALEB, can we call up Captain America? Tell him Thor’s on the line, he’ll probably pick up.” When there was no response, Anna laughed again. “Well. That’s typical. Jo’s probably performing nuclear fission down there and CALEB is busy making sure that the entire building doesn’t get irradiated.”

Castiel stared at his palm, remembering the gem inside and Balthazar’s sacrifice. He would not stop until he had found something to save them. It was his responsibility now, he was the only one that could.

“Captain America’s arriving!” Jo’s voice sounded as if she stood in the room and Castiel marvelled at her gift with technology. “I’m gonna turn the music up so you might want to get some headphones.”

Anna let out, what Castiel thought of as, a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll be upstairs when you’ve given up on the joke. If Jo asks, tell her that someone needs to sort out the Palladium etching and I’ve given up on her.” Then she turned around and walked back into the elevator, the doors promptly shutting behind her.

Castiel teleported to the - exceptionally noisy - workshop, irritated with the world, and Jo pushed him into the side room. “I want them to think I’m dead busy so that they’ll feel guilty for the disturbance. You can come out and yell boo later, just stay quiet.”

He knew that she was playing around but the irritation was beginning to build again. Not that she cared, shutting him in the backroom carelessly.

Convincing her had been fruitless and now, here he was. Mirroring Balthazar, in a way, only without being surrounded by thousands of homicidal angels. Instead, he had obstinate Anael and a whole host of egotistical humans with the added distraction of one Dean Winchester. It was not a good day.

Over the noise, he could vaguely make out some sort of conversation and so Castiel listened in. It would be useless to take a count of those present. Joanna, evidently, with Anael hidden away upstairs and apparently a Dean Winchester downstairs. It took a few more minutes for Castiel to discern that Daria and Kevin were the owners of the other two voices.

But Dean had brought the box with him. With the grace. Anael’s grace. Castiel grinned, shaking his head. That was one way to convince Anael, one that there was no way of disproving.

Castiel heard his own name and tried to listen a little harder but gave up. The very walls of Joanna’s home seemed to be alive, buzzing and whirring continuously, and the music (if less loud) was in no way an aid to any forms of espionage.

The door opened inwards and Castiel stepped backwards. “Give it to me,” he hissed, ducking out of sight. Jo turned towards him with a judgemental look.

“I thought you said don’t open it?”

“Someone’s got to make sure she doesn’t blow us all up.” Dasha was, seemingly, on the other side of the door and Castiel gave Joanna a pointed look.

She rolled her eyes in a way that was quite resemblant of her girlfriend before tossing the box to him. “There you go, Thor, keep your wig on.”

“Jo! CALEB isn’t responding.” That was Anael. Something was wrong.

“Seriously. I leave them alone for less than a minute and shit hits the fan.” Joanna laughed and Castiel offered a weak smile. The box was starting to affect him again and, try as he might, the effects could not be ignored.His body temperature started to rise once again, the heart of his vessel pumping hard against his chest. “You okay, Thor?”

He shrugged, neither willing to explain or craft another lie. She patted his shoulder before giggling, walking towards the door. “I’m never gonna hear the end of that, am I?”

Then. Darkness. Castiel drew Mjolnir, holding on tight as it spun in an attempt to keep up. Where was Jo?

“Goddammit CALEB!” There she was.

Count - but he needed to make sure that no one had gotten trapped below. Dasha’s voice. Anael’s voice - relief, blessed relief. If he had gotten this far only to have her crushed to death..

Castiel found Joanna, trying to support part of the building from below. “You’ve got to let it go,” he told her.

“My mom.” For a moment, Castiel was struck by the idea of Jo keeping Ellen Harvelle’s frozen corpse in some hidden vault under the workshop. “This was her dream. I can’t just abandon it.”

“We’ll come back,” he assured her. “But we’ve got to leave now before the whole place caves in.”

“Jo!” Anael had returned, neither Daria nor Dean anywhere in sight. “Thank God. We gotta help them up top.”

Castiel took that as agreement to help Heaven, taking both Joanna and Anael’s hands in his. Kevin appeared out of nowhere, reaching for Anael, and Castiel teleported them all out.

This time, Castiel could feel his distance from Anael’s grace. His arrival in Charlie’s apartment was sluggish, sprawling out on the floor. He could hear a variety of angry voices, merging and blurring, but could not bring himself to differentiate between them. Exhaustion had taken him in a chokehold and breathing was a struggle.

Someone handed him a large glass of water and it took Castiel a moment to recognise Charlie. Suspicious, understandably, but not cruel enough to force an answer out of him now. He sat up slowly, resting against the nearest wall, and drank as if he were parched.

“I need to speak with Anna alone,” he told no one in particular and was ignored. Kevin kept saying the word ‘Dean’ with a few ‘Dasha’s thrown in for good measure. Charlie piped up at Dasha’s name and Anael’s dulcet tones were sprinkled over the top.

Everyone was talking but no one was listening. Castiel sipped at his water. His head lolled back against the wall, eyes closing. A few minutes would not hurt, fatigue whispered, and he needed to be alert.

~

When he awoke, only Anael remained. She dabbed at his forehead with a damp cloth and he opened his eyes. “You need to take the grace,” he croaked and she wordlessly handed him another glass of water. “It’s only you that can. It’s yours.”

“Okay, Thor,” said Anna, smiling faintly. “So, update. Jo’s gone back to the mansion to fetch her toys and Cap’s magic box. Kevin and Charlie have gone to scout out what SHIELD has done with Cap and Daria. We’re sitting here because Rescue got a bit messed up and, due to my complete lack of superpowers, I was given nurse duty.”

“If you took back your grace, you’d have similar powers to me.”

“I admire your perseverance,” she laughed, handing him the cloth. “How are you feeling?”

“I have been worse,” he said, attempting to stand and spilling the remainder of his drink in the process. “I should aid Dean-” But his knees gave out, forcing him back down again.

“Slow down, soldier. I’ll get you more water.” She prised the glass out of his hold and disappeared. Castiel hit the back of his head against the wall, frustrated. The sooner Anael took back her grace, the better.

Far too quickly, she came back with another drink and he accepted it meekly. As he drank, she watched him, probably noting his irritation. “So. What’s so important about me taking the magic?”

“Grace,” he corrected instinctively. Despite Dean calling it mojo, it was perfectly natural, older than humanity itself. “Truthfully? We need you. Your knowledge of healing cannot be beaten and our home has come under a psychosis. Everyone is at each other’s throats.” Anael had not flinched and he raised his palm. “Everyone except me.”

“I think you have the wrong person.” Her voice was gentle, as if he was the one too fragile to accept the truth, and Castiel wanted to scream. “I can’t. I don’t remember a thing about healing. I haven’t studied Biology since high school.”

“Then take it anyway.” An idea had popped up in his head and Castiel allowed himself to hope. “If I’m right, you save all our siblings. If I’m wrong, you gain your superpowers and you can protect Joanna yourself next time she does something foolish.”

Anna’s eyes narrowed, instinctively suspicious, but Castiel could see her thinking. It was manipulative, dangling a carrot out in front of her like that, but his people were more important than one person’s feelings. The future of his race was more important.

“Maybe I’ll try it,” she said, slowly. “Maybe. I might change my mind.”

Castiel was, already, fairly sure that she would not. Once the idea had been planted, all it took was a dash of imagination and it would grow all on its own. “Thank you.”

Fifteen minutes later, Joanna returned, in her suit, holding as much material as she had managed to salvage. Dean’s box was in there and Castiel, immediately, stood up. He took it from her quickly and handed the box to Anael.

Even Joanna could not miss the glow in Anna’s eyes. Anael’s eyes. She dropped her things. “What’s going on?”

They both ignored her, Anna’s fingers opening the box. It was a vial, transparent save for the whisp of grace inside. “It’s mine,” breathed Anna, letting the box fall and holding the vial in her hands, staring.

“Anna?” Joanna’s voice was nervous and Castiel held out an arm to stop her interrupting.

Anna’s fingers trembled, opening the vial and releasing a whisper. Anael-Anael. Like a heartbeat, as if the molten moonlight were a living being in itself. Perhaps it was. It flowed up through her mouth and Anna’s eyes glowed. “That isn’t my name, Jo.”

“Anael,” said Castiel, stunned. She turned to him, the light of her eyes flaring.

“Is it true? Is our home in ruins?” When he nodded, she forced him against the wall. “How?”

Castiel broke free from her grip. “I believe it to be a human invention. Midnight Oil-” Joanna made a noise which Castiel ignored. “And the inventor claimed that there was no cure. I seek to prove her wrong.”

“You spoke with Mom-?”

“Then we need to get moving.” Anael responded, nodding at Castiel before turning to Joanna. “I will return as soon as I can-”

“Oh no,” Joanna said, taking hold of her arm. “I don’t know what he’s done but I want to help.”

“I won’t take you with me, it’s too dangerous. You’ve got to stay-”

“Don’t even think about trying to leave me behind-”

“Let her come, we’ll need all the help we can get and we haven’t got time to argue,” said Castiel, cutting across them. “Balthazar gave me a tool to resist the psychosis and the moment we broke contact, he was lost to it.” He held out one hand to Joanna and took Anael’s hand with the other.

“I haven’t been home for a long time. I’m not sure if I’m ready to see it falling apart.” Anael’s voice was softer, more vulnerable, and Castiel was vaguely aware of Joanna starting to say something when they left Earth behind.

Now on the celestial plane, it took Castiel a moment to adjust. Anael took longer, her ethereal form unchanged but different. In Castiel’s eyes, she looked like a woman looking back in nostalgia; reliving the emotions, recalling the names and struggling to differentiate between memory and hindsight.

Joanna, however, was another matter entirely. Humans were not built to walk Heaven, certainly not whilst still alive, and she had gained a silver sheen. As if she had bathed in glitter. Not quite a spirit, not quite an angel. “What the fuck.”

Then there was Heaven. If it had been festering when Castiel left, it was a wasteland now. Charred, smoking and with the inescapable rusty stench of blood, his home was in ruins. Castiel let out a low sob, staring at the destruction unblinkingly, unable to take it in.

Anael’s grip on his hand tightened. “Castiel. Take me to the centre.”

He nodded, taking them through the crumbling building. Some of the keep had enclosed others who were less fortunate than Balthazar - Castiel recognised Hannah, trapped under a fallen pillar - but the fight raged on. Michael and Raphael took centre stage, both injured and neither willing to back down.

Castiel did not attempt to count the dead, refusing to identify the fallen as they ran. The centre was close. There was no plan in his mind, relying on blind trust alone, but her sincerity had him convinced. Joanna was another matter entirely.

“We’ve got to stop them fighting,” she hissed. “They’re going to kill each other.”

“We’re not strong enough, Michael will destroy you with a single glance,” snapped Castiel.

“Castiel is right, Jo-”

“When this is all over, you’re going to explain every bit of this. You and Castiel over here.” There was an anger in her voice and Castiel could sense her feeling of betrayal.

“You have to understand, it was out of my hands. We were forbidden-” Castiel began but it was not enough.

“That’s crap, Castiel. We were your friends and all this time, we didn’t even know your real name.” He remained silent after that, aware that it was not merely the secret of his name that annoyed her. “If you lied about that, what else did you lie about? Did you send Loki down to Earth on purpose?”

Anael hushed them both, the trio approaching a golden fountain. She then reached for Joanna’s shoulder pulled her in close. “I love you, okay? So, so much. Never forget that.”

Castiel looked away as much as he could, staring at his feet. “Yeah, babe, I know. Why are you-” Then Joanna let go of his hand and Castiel looked up sharply. She was on the floor, eyes closed. Still breathing but unconscious.

“What are you doing?” asked Castiel, looking from Joanna to Anael. Anael’s expression was blank, lips pursed and grace burning behind her eyes. “Anael?”

She summoned Mjolnir from Castiel and it flew to her outstretched hand. “You take care of her. Of all of them. Those humans are your charge now- I don’t care what little title Michael gave you, you hear me?” He nodded, staring at her. “You protect them with all you have. Befriend them, be honest with them, watch them grow. Love them.”

Her gaze flicked back to Joanna and, suddenly, Castiel understood. “There has to be another way.”

She shook her head, smiling bitterly. “It is a last resort and Father put measures in place. A wipe like this is not encouraged and the blood required-”

“Use mine. Do not take this burden on yourself, you cannot-”

“Was your blood created to heal others?” she asked, but not angrily, and Castiel hesitated. “Precisely. I ran away two decades ago, here is my penance.” Then she threw Mjolnir at Castiel’s head and everything went dark.

~

Castiel could hear sobbing. The heavy, desperate breathing that accompanied tears was loud and close. His head ached. When his eyes opened, the room was still a chamber but the walls were coated in scarlet symbols. Enochian, he did not dare to read the words.

Joanna sat in the centre, cradling Anael, in a pool of blood. They were both covered in scarlet, Anael’s head on Joanna’s lap. Motionless. Tears had smeared her makeup, the silver aura that Heaven had given her smudging, mingling with the red, and rendering her a pale pink. She had closed Anael’s eyes, torn her own shirt to form bandages, but it had been too late. Castiel sat up slowly.

The look in Joanna’s eyes was hopeless, her head turning towards him. “Heal her,” she beseeched him. “Please. You assholes can heal anything if you freaking try so heal. Her. Please.”

He stood up in silence and she glared at him, ferocious through her tears. “For God’s sake, you’re an angel! You’re the one who dragged her here to her fucking death! Do something!” She choked on her words, pleading with him. “Do something.”

“I can’t,” he said, refusing to let his voice break. Care for them. He could not care for Joanna if he was ruined by grief. “I’m so sorry, Joanna-”

“Sorry doesn’t bring her back!” she snarled. “You’re not even trying! You’re just standing there, being fucking useless, and she’s dead! She’s- she’s dead.”

The doors opened, Hannah stepping through with other angels flanking her. One angel tried to remove Anael and Joanna sprang at them, punching and scratching and trying to harm. “Control your guest, Castiel,” said a voice and he turned to see Raphael, bruised, in the doorway.

“Jo, she’s gone-”

“SHE’S NOT! She’s not, Thor, she’s not! You’ve got to help her. Please!” Hannah and her troop lifted Anael’s limp body and Castiel moved to Jo, hugging her tight as she fought. “NO! You can’t! You can’t do this! One of you! You’ve got to save her! Please!”

When Anael had been removed, Jo turned to Castiel and broke down in tears once again, sobbing into his chest. He ran his hand through her hair in a way that he hoped was soothing, the room cleaning itself around them.

“You saved us, Castiel, and brought a wayward sister home.” Raphael caught his eye over Jo’s head and Castiel waited, sensing an oncoming negative. “Should you wish to return to Heaven, you would be welcome as your previous disobedience has been atoned for.”

His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. “And when my actions saved human lives on Earth, Raphael, who were only endangered thanks to your negligence-?”

“Protecting apes is hardly atonement,” said Raphael smoothly. “I must confess, I would prefer it if you remained on Earth. Heaven has no uses for angels who do not comply.”

“Then I shall relieve you of my vexatious self,” Castiel replied scathingly. “You know where to find me when you need me.”

The journey direct to Earth from the centre of Heaven was no mean feat but Castiel knew better than to force Jo through the keep towards the Bifrost in this state. So he focused on Earth, on Joanna’s mansion, and teleported them home.

~  
~~~~

Dean was on the verge of passing out, Sam’s hold painful, when the ground exploded. They were thrown apart by a lightning blast hitting the Earth. All he could hear was his own heartbeat. Dean shakily stood back up. White noise raged against his ears, his gaze almost in double vision.

Somehow, he could see Jo. Jo and Thor - injured. But he had lost Sam. Dean strained his eyes against the sunlight, trying to clear his vision, but the world was still swimming. “What the hell?” There. Sam. In a car, the wheels spinning, and Dean could only watch him leave. But he would find him. They always found each other eventually.

“Ask him,” said Jo venomously, tearing herself from Thor’s embrace - since when had they been close? - and marching towards Dean. “Just wait until twenty-seven point three gets here, I am going to blast him back to freaking Heaven.”

Thor, far from snapping back, looked sheepish and Dean’s eyebrows furrowed. “Any of you want to share what happened on your little space heart-to-heart?” No answer from either of them. “Thor?”

“That’s not even his name.” Jo showed no signs of calming down. “He’s a liar and a murderer and an asshole and his jackass angel buddies call him Castiel.” Thor flinched, still remaining silent.

So Dean turned towards him. “Is that true?” Thor still did not look at him. “Castiel?” attempted Dean, almost liking the way the name sounded on his tongue. Softer, somehow. More human, despite everything.

“She’s right,” he said slowly, looking as if each word caused him physical pain. “I had to make a decision. I did not listen to advice, isolated myself, and now-”

“And now Anna is dead and it’s all on you,” finished Jo. “You know what, screw the armour, let’s do this. You and me, right now.” Dean turned to her, incredulous, but she betrayed no signs of joking and Castiel did not back away. “Come on, Castiel, or do you bend over for everyone like you do for Raphael?”

Castiel bristled, anger crossing his features, but still did not move. Jo seemed more offended by his lack of trying than anything else, riled and ready to strike. Perhaps it would have been cathartic for them to spar, for Jo to work out her anger, but she was too far gone. Dean did not know her well enough to be able to tell.

So he stepped between them. “Maybe we should try talking this out first, before any more blood gets spilled?”

This was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Jo rounded on him. “Oh hello, Captain Naїve, got any more pearls of wisdom to share with us?” She did not give him time to answer. “This is why we need to be put in check. So that shit like this doesn’t happen.”

“What do you mean put in check?” That had come out of the blue - if Jo was allied with Dick, after all this, he would probably find Castiel’s home planet and live there instead.

“I mean Accords, dumbass. I mean that the governments around the world have seen us and ϊthink we need overseeing.” She ran a hand through her hair. “You know, this isn’t how I wanted to introduce it but asshole over here forced my hand. It’s a work in progress but it gives us accountability. Means that the people who own the buildings that we destroy can claim insurance and we can get back-up and other opinions-”

“Have you seen who is in charge of SHIELD at the moment?” asked Dean. “They’re monsters. We give control over to them and we might as well just sign up for HYDRA right now.”

Jo swallowed, managing to hold back her frustration. “Dean. We either sign up now, whilst we still have control, or they force us into this later. It’s the lesser of two evils and I really think that joining forces with other countries will be a good thing.”

Dean shook his head. “It’s not other countries I’m worried about. We’ve got a massive problem on our hands and if we don’t sort it out now-”

“It’ll be easier to deal with our internal issues with external backup.”

“Or it’ll launch us into another world war. And I’ve seen enough of those to last a lifetime.”

“You’re being dramatic-”

“People have agendas. By the time we get through layers of paperwork and bureaucracy, more people are going to die.”

“Bullshit. You think SHIELD doesn’t do exactly the same stuff? You’re just pissed that it’s not solely on you to make the decisions anymore. That when we make mistakes, we’ll have to deal with the consequences like everyone else.”

“No,” he said, jaw clenched. “I deal with consequences, Harvelle, I lost everyone I ever cared about due to freaking consequences. So. What if we refuse to go along with this?”

Jo looked pained. “Then you retire.”

~~~

Dasha was on her motorbike. She and Charlie had been keeping surveillance and, when the Winter Soldier ran, she was hot on his tail. Charlie had had visuals from above, hissing directions in her ear, until Dasha could see the car. BMW 3 Series, typical on Western roads and all too easy to blend in.

But she was better. Her motorbike was no civilian deathtrap, modified and tuned to physical perfection - when Charlie was drunk, she called it a self-metaphor. But Dasha was neither drunk nor fussed about her ego. Every fibre of her being was focused on tracking the Winter Soldier and she would not be deterred.

Not by his sharp turn. Not by his ploughing through traffic. Not by him running a red light or two - those were close but her reactions were sharper - and, ultimately, it was him who made the first mistake. By this point, they were out of town. Something sharp caught in the tyre which made the car refuse to turn and he was forced to leap from the vehicle.

Dasha followed him as he ran, relentless. Revenge for the shooting, in a way, but then he stopped. She dismounted, loading her guns. If he wanted a firefight, she would give him one. But when he turned, he held no weapons. “I’m not going back,” he said, long hair blowing in the wind.

“Back where, soldier?” she asked, her voice steady.

“To HYDRA. You’ll have to kill me.” He nodded at her guns and, for a second, she thought he was daring her to try. Daring her to take a shot, to end the life of a man who had killed so many.

But, by that logic, she would probably have to off herself, too. So she cast her guns aside, watching the surprise briefly register on his face. “I can take you somewhere else. Someplace safe.”

He took a step forward, gingerly. If he had been short, Dasha would have been tempted to crouch down to his level. “Who are you?”

She offered a hand, allowing herself a genuine smile. “Call me Jess.”

~~~

**Author's Note:**

> I have ideas for the sequel but any appreciation is much appreciated. Also, check out wizard-fallen-angel on tumblr (and me, maybe). I wish you all the best of luck with every challenge you are currently undertaking (and all future ones, too) and thank you for reading.


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